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An Illustrated Monthly 

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Illustrations from Photographs. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorp. 

ALMA-TADEMA, R.A., SIR LAWRENCE (See " Reminiscences, My -"). 

Illustrations from Diagrams. 


John N. Raphael. 551 

li . Da/ton. 



Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. 


Illustrations from Facsimiles, Old Prints, and Drawings by A. J. Gough. 

Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by W. H. Margetson. 

BUNDERBY'S TAHR. A Tale of Kashmir 

Illustrations by Lionel Edwards. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by Harry Furniss and from Diagrams. 


Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 


Illustrations by F. R. Skelton. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 


Written and Illustrated by Harry Furniss. 

CRYSTAL, CRIME AND THE. Has Crystal-Gazing a Scientific Basis ? 

Illustrations by A. Pearse. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 

...Frank Savile. 34 

fohn /. Ward. 415 

A. Conan Doyle. 420 

... Edward Price Self. 363 

Horace Annesley Vac he I I. 57 

Frank Savile. 589 


W. Dalton. 337 

Mrs. Baillie Reynolds. 713 

Sidney Ijtw. 159 

Horace Goldin. 1 00 


P. A. H. Lyles. 169 

117, 237, 356,477,613, 748 


Illustrations by A. J. Gough. 

Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by Alfred Pearae. 


Written and Illustrated by James Scott. 


Illustrations by Warwick Goble, 


Illustrations by A. D. McCormick, R.I. 


Written and Illustrated by Harry Furniss. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Digitized by LjOOQ 


Austin Philips. 94 

Hoi ace Annesley Vachell. 635 

D. Roger Bat nett. 546 


Arthur Beale y M. A. 463 

E. Phillips Oppenheim. 277 

265. 38S, 596, 730 

H. G. Pelissier. 688 

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Illustrations by C. Fleming Williams. 


Illustrations from Early Sketches by Sir W. S. Gilbert. „ 

IIARDINGS' LUCK. A Story for Children 

Illustrations by H. R. Millar. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by Wilmot Lunt. 


W. Pett Ridt>e. 727 
E. S. Valentine. 139 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

KIRALFY, IMRE (See "Reminiscences, My"). 

Illustrations from Photographs. 

LAUDER, HARRY (See " Reminiscences, My"). 

LOCKED DOOR, THE. The Story of a Night's Adventure 
Illustrations by Tony Sarg. 


Illustrations by J. B. Gough. 


Illustrations by Tom Browne. 

E. Nesbit. 105, 225, 343, 469, 601, 735 
W. IV. Jacobs. 329 

E. Phillips Oppenheim. 380 

Arthur Morr ison. 609 

fohn /. Ward. 744 

... Agnes Grozier Herbert son. 296 

Austin Philips. 577 

Arthur Morrison. 81 


Illustrations by A. D. McConnick, R.I. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott, Stanley L. Wood, and E. S. Hodgson. 

Illustrations from Photographs. 


Illustrations by J. R. Skelton. 


Illustrations by W. D. Almond, R.I. 

MULTUM IN PARVO. A Compendium of Short Articles 

VI.— Some Postal Puzzles. VII.— Some Curious Inn Signs. 
VIII. —Which is the P^inest Statue in the World? The Opinions of Famous Sculptors. 


The New Jaques-Dalcroze System. Illustrations from Photographs. 

" MY BEST PORTRAIT OF A LADY." A Symposium of Leading Portrait- Painters of the World. 321 
Illustrations from Portraits, 

Morley Roberts. 499 

... Henry E. Dudeney. 442 


... Edward Whymper. 49 
. . . Archibald Marshall. 650 
... F. Frankfort Moore. 695 

NIGGER, THE. An Episode in the Life of Joan Hardacre 
Illustrations by Cyrus Cuneo. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 


Illustrations by A. D. McCormick, R.I. 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

Max Pemberton. 208 

W. W. /acobs. 425 

Morley Roberts. 311 

481, 617, 753 

PAGEANT IN THE STRAND, A Morley Adams. 304 

Illustrations from Photographic Studies by Ernest H. Mills. 

PARIS, THE ACTRESSES OF ,,. fohn N. Raphael. 551 

Illustrations from Photographs. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorn. DriQinsI frOITI 






Illustrations by Tom Browne, R.I. 


Illustration* 1>y W. R. S. Stott, Stanley L. Wood, anU E. S. Hodgson. 

PIT, THE. A Tale of North Australia 

Illustrations by Norman H. Ha»dy. 

PLOWDEN, A. CIIICHELE (See " Reminiscences, My"). 


Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations from Diagrams. 


Dorothea Deakin. 177 


. . . Frank Saviie. 1 45 

.Henry E. Ditdeney. 



Gkorgk R. Sims . . 

Illustrations from Photographs and Facsimiles. 

Kredkkick Coltrtknky Sei.ous 

Illustrations by C. Whymper and from Photographs. 

Sir Lawrence Alma-Tadbma, R.A 

Illustrations from Pictures by the Auihor and from Photographs. 

Harry Lauder 

Illustrations by Mnx Cowper, W. R S. Stott, and from Photographs. 

A. Chichki.h Pi.owden 

Illustrations by C. H. Taffs and from Photographs. 

Imre Kiraify 

Illustrations from Photographs and Sketches. 


Illustrations by Charles Ambrose. 

E. H. D. Sewell. 




Illustrations from Photographs and a Facsimile. 

SAVAGE, THE MIND OF THE. A Symposium of Missionaries 

Illustrations by \V. S. Stacey and from a Photograph. 


Illustrations by Will Owen. 
SELOUS, FREDERICK COURTENEY (Sec " Reminiscences, My "). 
SIMS, GEORGE R. (See " Reminiscences, My"). 
SKETCHES FROM LIFE. IV.-- Compromise. V.— Common Scents 

Illustrations by Gilbert Holiday. 

14 SONG I MOST ENJOY SINGING, THE." The Selections of Some Famous Concert Singers. 432 

Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorp. 

"SPIRIT-DRAWINGS." What is their Scientific Explanation? 

Illustrations from Drawings. 


Illustrations from Photographs and Drawings. 


Illustrations from Photographs. Ornamental Borders by G. Thorp and L. Le Grys. 


..' S*2 

IV. W. Jacobs. 561 

IV. Pelt Ridge. 193 

Bee kits Wilhon. 272 


73, 184 


Illustrations from Photographs. 

//. F. Macmillan. 351 

VARIETY THEATRE IS RUN, HOW A. A Day at the Palace Theatre with Mr. Alfred Butt. 

Illustrations by W. R. S. Stott, Bert Levy, Tom Browne, R. L, and fron. Photographs. Percy Burton. 5 1 I 

John J. Wa> d. 415 


' Illustrations from Photographs by the Author. 

WHITE PROPHET, THE Hall Caine. 3,123,24^,393,520,665 

Illustrations by R. Caton Woodvillc. 


Illustrations by J. A. Shepherd. 


Illustrations from Photographs, 

H. F. Mac mi I Ian. 351 


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Vol. xxxvii. 

JANUARY, 1909. 

No. 217 

The WHite Prophet. 


[The Arabs have a tradition that in "the time of the end" a Redeemer will come to unite the faiths of 
the world into one faith, and the peoples of the world into one people. This Redeemer is sometimes known 
as the Mahdi, sometimes as Mohammed, sometimes as Jesus, but generally as the White Prophet of Peace, 

meaning the Christ.] 

FIRST BOOK : — The Crescent and the Cross. 

son of a Libyan carpenter 
and boat-builder, who, shortly 
before the days of the Mahdi, 
had removed with his family 
to Khartoum. His earliest 
memory was of the solitary figure of the 
great white pasha on the roof of the palace, 
looking up the Nile for the relief army that 
never arrived, and of the same white-headed 
Englishman, with the pale face, who, walking 
to and fro on the sands outside the palace 
garden, patted his head and smiled. 

His next memory was of the morning after 
the fall of the desert city, when, awakened 
by the melancholy moan of the great onbeya, 
the elephant's horn that was the trumpet of 
death, he heard the hellish shrieks of the 
massacre that was going on in the streets, 
and saw his mother lying dead in front of the 
door of the inner closet in which she had 
hidden her child, and found his. father's body 
on the outer threshold 

He was seven years of age at this time, 
and being adopted by an uncle, a merchant 
in the town, who had been rich enough to 
buy his own life, he was sent in due course 
first to the little school of the mosque in 
Khartoum, and afterwards, at eighteen, to 
El Azhar, in Cairo, where, with other poor 
students, he slept in the stifling rooms under 
the flat roof, and lived on the hard bread and 
the jars of cheese and butter which were sent 
to him from home. 

Within four years he had passed the highest 
examination at the Arabic University, taking 
the rank of alim (doctor of Koranic divinity), 
which entitled him to teach and preach in 
any quarter of the Mohammedan world, and 
then, equally by reason of his rich voice and 

VoL juovit— 1 Copyright, 1908, by Hall Caine, 

his devout mind, he was made reader in the 
mosque of El Azhar. 

Morality was low among the governing 
classes at that period, and when it occurred 
that the Grand Kadi, who was a compound 
of the Eastern voluptuary and the libertine 
of the Parisian boulevards, marrying for the 
fourth time, made a feast that went on for a 
week, in which the days were spent in eating 
and drinking and the nights in carousing of 
an unsaintly character, the orgy so shocked 
the young alim from the desert that he went 
down to the great man's house to protest. 

" How is this, your Eminence ? " he said, 
stoutly. "The Koran teaches temperance, 
chastity, and contempt of the things of the 
world — yet you, who are a tower and a light 
in Islam, have darkened our faces before the 

So daring an outrage on the authority of 
the Kadi had never been committed before, 
and Ishmael was promptly flung into the 
streets ; but the matter made some noise 
and led, in the end, to the expulsion of all 
the governors (the Ulema) of the University 
except the one man who, being the first 
cause of the scandal, was also the represen- 
tative of the Sultan, and therefore could not 
be changed. 

Meantime Ishmael, returning no more to 
El Azhar, had settled himself on an island 
far up the river, and there, practising extreme 
austerities, he gathered a great reputation for 
holiness, and attracted attention throughout 
the valley of the Nile by breathing out 
threatenings and slaughter — not so much 
against the leaders of his own people, who 
were degrading Islam, as against the 
Christians under whose hated bondage, as he 
believed, the whole Mohammedan world was 


in the United States of America, 


So wide was the appeal of Ishmael's 
impeachment, and so vast became his 
following, that the Government (now Anglo- 
Egyptian), always sure that after sand-storms 
and sand-flies holy men of all sorts were the 
most pernicious products of the Soudan, 
thought it necessary to put him down, and 
for this purpose they sent two companies of 
Arab camel police, promising a reward to the 
one that should capture the new prophet. 

The two camel corps set out on different 
tracks, but each resolving to take Ishmael by 
night, they entered his village at the same 
time by opposite ends, met in the darkness, 
and fought and destroyed one another, so 
that when morning dawned they saw their 
leaders on both sides lying dead in the 
crimsoning light. 

The gruesome incident had the effect of 
the supernatural on the Arab intellect, and 
when Ishmael and his followers, with nothing 
but a stick in one hand and the Koran in 
the other, came down with a roar of voices 
and the sand whirling in the wind, the native 
remnant turned tail and fled before the 
young prophet's face. 

Then the Governor-General, an agnostic 
with a contempt for " mystic senses " of all 
kinds, sent a ruckling, swearing, unbelieving 
company of British infantry, and they took 
Ishmael without further trouble, brought him 
up to Khartoum, put him on trial for plotting 
against the Christian Governor of his pro- 
vince, and imprisoned him in a compound 
outside the town. 

But soon the Government began to see 
that, though they had crushed Ishmael, they 
could not crush Ishmaelism, and they lent 
an ear to certain of the leaders of his own 
faith, judges of the Mohammedan law courts, 
who, having put their heads together, had 
devised a scheme to wean him from his 
asceticism, and so destroy the movement by 
destroying the man. The scheme was an old 
one, the wiles of a woman, and they knew 
the very woman for the purpose. 

This was a girl named Adila, a Copt, only- 
twenty years of age, and by no means a 
voluptuous creature, but a little, winsome 
thing, very sweet and feminine, always 
freshly clad and walking barefoot on the hot 
sand with an erect confidence that was 
beautiful to see. 

Adila had been the daughter of a Christian 
merchant at Assouan, and there, six years 
before, she had been kidnapped by a Bisharin 
tribe, who, answering her tears with rough 
comfort, promised to make her a queen. 

In their own way they did so, for, those 

being the dark days of Mahdism, they 
brought her to Omdurman and put her up 
to auction in the open slave-market, where 
the black eunuch of the Calipha, after thrust- 
ing his yellow fingers into her mouth to 
examine her teeth, bought her, among other 
girls, for his master's harem. 

There, with forty women of varying ages, 
gathered by concupiscence from all quarters 
of the Soudan, she was mewed up in the 
close atmosphere of two sealed chambers 
in the Calipha's crudely gorgeous palace, 
seeing no more of her owner than his 
coffee-coloured countenance as he passed 
once a day through the curtained rooms, 
and signalled to one or other of their 
bedecked and beringleted occupants to follow 
him down a hidden stairway to his private 
quarters. At such moments of inspection 
Adila would sit trembling and breathless, in 
dread of being seen, and she found her 
companions only too happy to help her to 
hide herself from the attentions they were 
seeking for themselves. 

This lasted nearly a year, and then came a 
day when the howling in the streets outside, 
the wailing of shells overhead, and the 
crashing of cannon-balls in the dome of the 
Mahdi's tomb told the imprisoned women, 
who were creeping together in corners and 
clinging to each other in terror, that the 
English had come at last, and the Calipha 
had fallen and fled. 

When Adila was set at liberty by the 
English Sirdar, she learned that, in grief at 
the loss of their daughter, her parents had 
died, and so, ashamed to return to Assouan, 
after being a slave-girl in Omdurman, she 
took service with a Greek widow who kept 
a bakery in Khartoum. It was there the 
sheikhs of the law courts found her, and 
they proceeded to coax and flatter her, telling 
her she had been a good girl who had seen 
much sorrow, and therefore ought to know 
some happiness now, to which end they had 
found a husband to marry her, and he was a 
fine, handsome man, young and learned and 

At this, Adila, remembering the Calipha, 
and thinking that such a person as they 
pictured could only want her as the slave of 
his bed, turned sharply upon them and said, 
"When did I ask you to find me a man?" 
and the sheikhs had to go back discomfited. 

Meantime Ishmael, raving against the 
Christians, who were corrupting Moham- 
medans while he was lying helpless in his 
prison, feli into a fever, and the Greek 
mistress of Adila, hairing «ho had been 


meant for her hand- maiden and fearing 
the girl might think too much of herself, 
began to taunt and mock her. 

"They told you he was rich, didn't they ?" 
said the widow/ " Well, he has no bread but 
what the Government gives him, and he is 
in chains and he is dying, and you would 
only have had to nurse him and bury him. 
That's all, the husband you would have got, 
my girl, so perhaps you are better off 
where you are." 

But the widow's taunting went wide, for as 
soon as Adila had heard her out she went 
across to the Mohammedan court-house and 
said :— 

" Why didn't you tell me it was Ishmael 
Ameer you meant ? " 

The sheikhs answered with a show of shame 
that they had intended to do so eventually, 
and if they hf d not done so at first it was 
only out of fear of frightening her. 

" He's sick and in chains, isn't he?" said 

They admitted that it was true. 

" He may never come out of prison alive — 
isn't that so?" 

They could not deny it 

" Then I want to marry him," said Adila. 

"What a strange girl you are!" said the 
sheikhs, but without more ado the marriage 
document was drawn up in Ishmael's name, 
Adila signed it, half her dowry was paid to 
her, and she promptly gave the money to 
the poor. 

Next day Ishmael was tossing on his angerib 
in the mud hut which served for his cell 
when he saw his Soudanese guard come in, 
followed by four women, and the first of 
them was Adila, carrying a basketful of 
cakes, such as are made in that country for 
a marriage festival One moment she stood 
over him as he lay on his bed with what 
seemed to be dews of death on his forehead, 
and then, putting her basket on the ground, 
she slipped to her knees by his side and 
said : — 

" I am Adila. I belong to you now and 
have come to take care of you." 

" Why do you come to me ? " he answered. 
" Go away. I don't want you." 

" But we are married and I am your wife, 
and I am here to nurse you until you are 
well," she said. 

" I shall never be well," he replied. " I 
am dying and will soon be dead. Why 
should you waste your life on me, my girl ? 
Go away and God bless you ! " 

With that she kissed his hand and her 
tears fell over it, but after a moment she 

wiped her eyes, rose to her feet, and, turning 
briskly to the other women, said : — 

" Take your cakes and be off with you — 
I'm going to stay." 

Three weeks longer Ishmael lay in the grip 
of his fever, and day and night Adila tended 
him, moistening his parched lips and cooling 
his hot forehead, while he raged against his 
enemies in his strong delirium, crying, 
" Down with the Christians ! Drive them 
away ! Kill them ! " Then the thunging 
and roaring in his poor brain ceased, and his 
body was like a boat that had slid in an 
instant out of a stormy sea into a quiet har- 
bour. Opening his eyes, with his face to the 
red wall, in the cool light of a breathless 
morning, he heard behind him the soft and 
mellow voice of a woman who seemed to be 
whispering to herself or to Heaven, and she 
was saying: — 

" Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive 
them that trespass against us; and lead us 
not into temptation, but deliver us from evil ; 
for Thine is the kingdom, the power, and the 
glory, fof ever and ever. Amen." 

" What is that ? " he asked, closing his eyes 
again ; and at the next moment the mellow 
voice came from somewhere above his face : — 

" So you are better ? Oh, how good that 
is ! I am Adila. Don't you remember me ? " 

" What was that you were saying, my girl ? " 

"That? Oh, that was the prayer of the 
Lord Isa (Jesus)." 

"The Lord Isa?" 

" Don't you know ? Long ago my father 
told me about Him, and I've not forgotten it 
even yet. He was only a poor man, a poor 
Jewish man, a carpenter, but He was so good 
that He loved all the world, especially sinful 
women when they were sorry, and little help- 
less children. He never did harm to His 
enemies' either, but people were cruel and 
they crucified Him. And now He is in 
heaven, sitting at God's right hand, with 
Mary, His mother, beside Him." 

There was silence for a moment, and 
then : — 

" Say His prayer again, Adila." 

So Adila, with more constraint than before, 
but still soft and sweetly, began afresh : — 

"Our Father, Which art in heaven, hallowed 
be Thy name ; Thy kingdom come ; Thy will 
be done in earth as it is in heaven ; give us 
this day our daily bread, and forgive us our 
trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass 
against us ; and lead us not into temptation, 
but deliver us from evil; for Thine is the 




kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever 
and ever. Amen," 

Thus the little Coptic woman, in her soft 
and mellow voice, said her Lord's Prayer in 
that mud hut on the edge of the desert, with 
only the sick man to hear her, and he was a 
prisoner and in chains ; but long before she 
had finished Ishmael's face was hidden in his 
bed-clothes and he was crying like a child 

There were three weeks more of a painless 
and dreamy convalescence, in which Adits 
repeated other stories her father had told her. 
and Ishmael saw Christianity for the first time 
as it used to be, and wondered to find it £ 
faith so sweet and so true, and, above all 
save for the character of Jesus, so like hi< 

ffltaRJffT 9? f!fieftR!.W s took P° ssessi °r 


ot him, and with returning strength he began 
to see Adila with fresh eyes. Ke loved to 
look at her soft, round form, and he found the 
air of his gloomy prison full of perfume and 
light when she walked with her beautiful erect 
bearing and smiling blue eyes about his bed. 
Hitherto she had slept on a mattress which 
she had laid out on the ground by the side 
of his angerib, but now he wished to change 
places, and when nothing would avail with 
her to do so he would stretch out his arm at 
night until their hands met and clasped, and 
thus linked together they would fall asleep. 

At length he would awake in the darkness, 
not being able to sleep for thinking of her, 
and finding one night that she was awake 
too, he said in a tremulous voice : — 

" Will you not kiss me, Adila ? " 

" Should I ? " she whispered, and she did. 

Next day the black Soudanese guard that 
had been set to watch him reported to the 
Mohammedan sheikhs that the devotee had 
been swallowed up in the man, whereupon 
the sheikhs, with a chuckle, reported the same 
to the Government, and then Ishmael with 
certain formalities was set free. * 

At the expense of his uncle a house was 
found for him outside the town, for in con- 
tempt of his weakness in being tricked, as 
his people believed, by a Coptic slave-girl, 
his following had gone and he and Adila 
were to be left alone. Little they recked of 
that, though, for in the first sweet joys of 
husband and wife they were very happy, talk- 
ing in delicious whispers and with the frank 
candour of the East of the child that was to 
come. He was sure it would be a girl, so they 
agreed to call it Ayesha (Mary), she for the 
sake of the sinful soul who had washed her 
Master's feet with her tears and wiped them 
with the hair of her head, and he in memory 
of the poor Jewish woman, the mother of 
Isa, whose heart had been torn with grief for 
the sorrows of her son. 

But when at length came their day of days, 
at the height of their happiness a bolt fell out 
of a cloudless sky, for though God gave them 
a child, and it was a girl, He took the mother 
in place of it. 

She made a brave end, the sweet Coptic 
woman, only thinking of Ishmael and holding 
his hand to cheer him. It was noon, the 
sun was hot outside, and in the cool shade of 
the courtyard three Moslems chanted the 
Islamee la Ulaha, for so much they could do 
even for the infidel, while Ishmael sat within 
on one side of his wife's angerib, with his 
uncle, seventy years of age now, on the other. 
She was too weak to speak to her husband, 

but she held up her mouth to him like a 
child to be kissed, and then the old man 
closed her eyes, and said : — 

" Be comforted, my son — death is a black 
camel that kneels at the gate of all." 

There were no women to wail outside the 
house that night, and next day, when Adila 
had to be buried, it was neither in the 
Mohammedan cemetery with those who had 
"received direction," nor in the Christian 
one with English soldiers who had fallen in 
fight, that the slave-wife of a prisoner could 
be laid, but out in the open desert where 
there was nothing save the sand and the sky. 

They laid her with her face to Jerusalem, 
wrapped in a coco-nut mat, and put a few 
thorns over her to keep off the eagles, and 
when this was done they would have left her, 
saying she would sleep cool in her soft bed, 
for a warm wind was blowing and the sun was 
beginning to set, but Ishmael would not go. 

In his sorrow and misery, his doubt and 
darkness, he was asking himself whether, if 
his poor Coptic wife was doomed to hell as 
an unbeliever, he could ever be happy in 
heaven. The moon had risen when at 
length they drew him away, and even then 
in the stillness of the lonely desert he looked 
back again and again at the dark patch on 
the white waste of the wilderness in which he 
was leaving her behind him. 

Next morning he took the child from the 
midwife's arms, and, carrying it across to his 
uncle, he asked him to take care of it and 
bring it up, for he was leaving Khartoum 
and did not know how long he might be 
away. Where was he going to ? He could 
not say. Had he any money? None, but 
God would provide for him. 

" Better stay in the Soudan and marry 
another woman, a believer, " said his uncle, 
and then Ishmael answered, in a quivering 
voice : — 

" No, no, by Allah ! One wife I had, and 
if She was a Christian and was once a slave, 
I loved her, and never — never — shall another 
woman take her place." 

He was ten years away, and only at long 
intervals did anybody hear of him, and it 
was sometimes from Mecca, sometimes from 
Jerusalem, sometimes from Rome, and finally 
from the depths of the Libyan desert. Then 
he reappeared at Alexandria, and, entering a 
little mosque, he exercised his right as alim 
and went up into the pulpit to preach. 

His teaching was like fire, and men were 
like fuel before it. Day by day the crowds 
increased that caire to hear him, until 
Alexandria seemed tabs .aflame, and he had 



to remove to the large mosque of Abou 
Abbas in the square of the same name. 

Such was the man whom Gordon Lord jaras 
sent to arrest. 

11 Head-quarters, Caracol Attarin, 
" Alexandria. 

" My Dearest Helena, — I have seen my 
man and it is all a mistake ! I can have no 
hesitation in saying so — a mistake ! Ishmael 
Ameer is not the cause of the riots which 
are taking place here — never has been, 
never can be. And if his preaching should 
ever lead by any indirect means to sporadic 
outbursts of fanaticism the fault will be ours 
— ours, and nobody else's. 

44 Colonel Jenkinson and the Commandant 
of Police met me on my arrival. It seems 
my coming had somehow got wind, but the 
only effect of the rumour had been to increase 
the panic, for even the conservative elements 
among the Europeans had made a run on the 
gunsmiths' shops for firearms and — could you 
believe it ? — on the chemists' for prussic acid, 
to be used by their women in case of the 

11 Next morning I saw my man for the first 
time. It was outside Abou Abbas, on the 
toe of the east port, where the native popu- 
lation, with quiet Eastern greeting, of hands 
to the lips and forehead, were following him 
from his lodging to the mosque. 

4i My dear girl, he is not a bit like the man 
you imagined. Young — as young as I am, at 
all events — tall, very tall (his head showing 
above others in a crowd), with clean-cut face, 
brown complexion, skin soft and clear, hands 
like a woman's, and large, beaming black 
eyes as frank as a child's. His dress is 
purely Oriental, being white throughout, save 
for the red slippers under the caftan and the 
tip of the tarboosh above the turban. No 
mealy-mouthed person, though, but a spon- 
taneous, passionate man, careless alike of the 
frowns of men and the smiles of women, a 
real type of the Arab out of the desert, 
uncorrupted by the cities, a man of peace, 
perhaps, but full of deadly fire and 
dauntless energy. 

44 My dear Helena, I liked my first sight 
of Ishmael Ameer, and thinking I saw in 
him some of the barbarous virtues we have 
civilized away, some of the fine old stuff of 
the Arab nobleman who would light his 
beacon to guide you to his tent even if you 
were his worst enemy, I could not help but 

say to myself, 4 By , here's a man I want 

to fight!' 

44 As soon as he had gone into the mosque 
I sent Hafiz and the two Egyptians after him 
by different doors, with strict injunctions 
against collusion of any kind, and then went 
off to the police head-quarters in the Govern- 
orat to await their report. Hafiz himself 
was the first to come to me, and he brought 
a circumstantial story. Not a word of sedi- 
tion, not a syllable about the Christians, 
good, bad, or indifferent ! Did the man 
flatter the Moslems ? Exactly the reverse ! 
Never had Hafiz heard such a rating of 
a congregation even from a Mohammedan 

44 The sermon had been on the degrada- 
tion of woman in the East, which the preacher 
had denounced as a disgrace to their humanity, 
Christians believed it to be due to their faith, 
but what had degraded woman in Moham- 
medan countries was not the Mohammedan 
religion but the people's own degradation. 

44 4 1 dreamt last night/ he said, 4 that in 
punishment of your offences against woman 
God lifted the passion of love out of the 
heart of man. What a chaos ! A cockpit 
of selfishness and sin ! Woman is meant to 
sweeten life, to bind its parts together — will 
you continue to degrade her? Fools, are 
you wiser than God, trying to undo what He 
has done ? ' 

44 Such was Ishmael's sermon, as Hafiz 
reported it, and when the Egyptians came 
their account was essentially the same ; but 
just at the moment when I was asking myself 
what there could be in teaching like this to 
set Moslem against Christian, tinkle-tinkle 
went the bell of the telephone, and the Com- 
mandant of Police, who had been listening 
with a supercilious smile, seemed to take a 
certain joy in telling me that his inspector in 
the quarter of Abou Abbas was calling for 
reinforcements because a fresh disturbance 
had broken out there. 

44 In three minutes I was on the spot, and 
the first thing I saw was the white figure of 
Ishmael Ameer lashing his way through 
a turbulent crowd, whereupon the Com- 
mandant, who was riding by my side, 
said, 4 See that ? Are you satisfied now, sir ? * 
to which I answered, 4 Don't be a fool,' with 
a stronger word to drive it home, and then 
made for the middle of the throng. 

44 It was all over before I got there, for 
Christians and Moslems alike were flying 
before Ishmael's face, and, without waiting 
for a word of thanks, he was gone too, and 
in another moment the square was clear, save 
for a dozer* rnen, native and European, whom 


"With these rascals I returned to the 
Govemorat and investigated the riot, which 
turned out to be a very petty affair, originat- 
ing in an effort on the part of a couple of 
low-class Greeks to attend to the Scriptural 
injunction to spoil the Egyptians by robbing 
a shop (covered only by a net) while its 
native owner was in the mosque. 

" Next morning came a letter from Ishmael 
Ameer, beginning, ' In the name of God, the 
Compassionate, the Merciful/ but otherwise 
written without preamble or circumlocution, 
saying he was aware that certain incidents in 
connection with his services had assumed an 
anti-Christian aspect, and begging to be per- 
mitted, in the interests of peace and in order 
to give a feeling of security to Europeans, to 
preach Openly at noon the next day in the 
square of- Mohammed Ali. 

"I need not tell you, my dear Helena, 
that everybody at the Govemorat thought 
the letter a piece of appalling effrontery, and, 
of course, the Commandant— who is one of 
the good Christians, with a rooted contempt 
for anything in a turban (forgetting that 
Jesus Christ probably wore one) — made him- 
self big with phrases out of Blue Books about 
the only way to suppress disorder being to 
refuse to let sedition $how its head. But 
I have never been afraid of a mob, and, 
thinking the situation justified the experi- 
ment, I advised the Governor to let the man 

"One thing I did, though, my dear 
Helena, and that was to dictate a pretty 
stiff reply, saying I should be present myself 
with a regiment of soldiers, and if, instead of 
pacifying the people, he aggravated their 
hostility, I should make it my personal busi- 
ness to see that he would be the first to 

"That night all the world and his wife 
declared that I was fishing in troubled waters, 
and I hear that some brave souls fled panic- 
stricken by the last train to Cairo, where they 
are now, I presume, preferring their petitions 
at the Agency ; but next morning (that is to 
say, this morning) the air was calmer, and 
the great square, when I reached it, was as 
quiet as an inland sea. 

"It was a wonderful sight, however, with 
the i st Suffolk lining the east walls, and the 
2nd Berkshire lining the west ; and the over- 
flowing Egyptian and European populace 
between, standing together yet apart, like the 
hosts of Pharaoh and of Israel with the Red 
Sea dividing them. 

" I rode up with Jenkinson a little before 
twelve, and I think the people saw that, 

VoL xaurril— 2. 

though we had permitted this unusual ex- 
periment in the interests of peace, we meant 
business. A space had been kept clear for 
Ishmael at the foot of the statue of the great 
Khedive, and hardly had the last notes of 
the midday call to prayers died away when 
our man arrived. He was afoot, quite un- 
attended, walking with an active step and 
that assured nobility of bearing which belongs 
to the Arab blood alone. He bowed to me, 
with a simple dignity that had not a particle 
either of fear or defiance, and again, Heaven 

knows why, I said to myself, 'By , I 

want to fight that man ! ' 

" Then he stepped on to the angerib that 
had been placed for him as a platform and 
began to speak. His first words were a 
surprise, being in English, and faultlessly 

" ' The earth and the sky are full of 
trouble. God has afflicted us; praise to 
His name,' he began, and then, pointing to 
the warships that were just visible in the bay, 
he cried: — 

" ' Men who are watching the heavens and 
who speak with authority tell us that great 
conflicts are coming among the nations of 
the world. Why is it so? What is dividing 
us? Is it race? We are the sons of one 
Father. Is it faith? It is the work of 
religion not only to set men free, but to bind 
them together. Our Koran says: "Thou 
shalt love thy brother as thyself, and never act 
towards him but as thou wouldst that he 
should act towards thee." The Gospel of 
Jesus Christ and the Law of Moses say the 
same. The true Christian is the true Moslem 
— the true Moslem is the true Jew. All that 
is right in religion includes itself in one com- 
mandment — love one another! Then, why 
warfare between brethren so near akin ? ' 

" His voice, my dear Helena, was such as 
I had never in my life heard before. It 
throbbed with the throb that is peculiar to 
the voice of the Arab singer and seems to go 
through you like an electric current. His 
sermon, too, which was sometimes in English, 
sometimes in Arabic, the two languages so 
intermingled that the whole vast congregation 
of the cosmopolitan seaport seemed to follow 
him at once, was not like preaching at all, 
but vehement, enthusiastic, extempore prayer. 

" I have sent a long account of it to the 
Consul-General, so I dare say you will see 
what it contained. It was the only preaching 
I have ever heard that seemed to me to 
deserve the name of inspiration. Sedition ? 
In one passage alone did it so much as skirt 
the problem of England in Egypt, and then 



there was a spirit in the man's fiery words 
that was above the finest patriotism. Speak- 
ing of the universal hope of all religions, the 
hope of a time to come when the Almighty 
will make all the faiths of the world one faith, 
and all the peoples of the world one people, 
he said : — 

"'In visions of the night I see that 
promised day, and what is our Egypt then ? 
She, the oldest of the nations, who has seen 
so many centuries of persecution and shame, 
trodden under the heel of hard task -masters, 
and buried in the sands of her deserts, what 
is she ? She is the meeting-place of nations, 
the hand-clasp of two worlds, the interpreter 
and the peacemaker between East and West. 
We can never be a great nation — let us be a 
good one. Is it not enough ? Look around ! 
We stand amid ruins half as old as the earth 
itself— is it not worth waiting for?' 

"Then in his last word, speaking first in 
Arabic and afterwards in English, he cried : — 

" * O men of many races, be brothers one to 
another ! God is great ! God is great ! 
Take hands, O sons of one Father, believers 
in one God ! Pray to Him who changes all 
things but Himself changeth not ! God is 
great ! God is great ! Let Allah Akbar 
sound for ever through your souls ! ' 

"The effect was overwhelming. Even 
some of the low-class Greeks and Italians 
were sobbing aloud, and our poor Egyptian 
children were like people possessed. Hungry, 
out of work, many of them wearing a single 
garment, and that a ragged one — yet a new 
magnificence seemed to be given to their 
lives. Something radiant and glorious 
seemed to glimmer in the distance, making 
their present sufferings look small and mean. 

" And I ? I don't know, my dear Helena, 
how I can better tell you what I felt than by 
telling you what I did. I was looking down 
from the saddle at my ist Suffolk and my 
2nd Berkshire, standing in line with their 
poor little rifles, when something gripped me 
by the throat, and I signed to the officers, 
shouted ' Back to your quarters ! ' and rode 
off, without waiting to see what would 
happen, because I knew. 

" I have written both to the General and 
to my father, telling them I have not arrested 
Ishmael Ameer and don't intend to do so. 
If this is quackery and spiritual legerdemain 
to cover sedition and conspiracy, I throw up 
the sponge and count myself among the fools. 
But Ishmael Ameer is one of the flame- 
bearers of the world. Let who will put him 
down — I will not. 

" My dearest Helena, I've written all this 

about the new prophet and not a word 
about yourself, though I've been feeling the 
quivering grip of your hand in mine every 
moment of the time. The memory of that 
delicious quarter of an hour in the garden has 
sweetened the sulphurous air of Alexandria 
for me, and I'm in a fever to get back. 
'Smash the Mahdi !' you said, thinking if I 
didn't obey my father and youre I should 
offend both and so lead to trouole betw< *n 
you and me. But the Consul-General is a 
just man, if he is a hard one, and I should 
not deserve to be his son if I did not dare to 
warn him when he was going to do wrong. 
Neither should I deserve to be loved by the 
bravest girl alive if I hadn't the pluck to 
stand up for the right. 

" Good night, sweetheart ! It's two in the 
morning, the town is as quiet as a desert 
village, and I am going to turn in. — Gordon. 

"P.S. — Forgot to say Ishmael Ameer is to 
go up to Cairo shortly, so you'll soon see him 
for yourself. But Heaven help me, what is 
to become of Gordon Lord when you've once 
looked on this son of the wilderness? 

"P. P.S. — Not an arrest since yesterday !" 

" General's House, 

" Citadel, Cairo. 

" My Dear Gordon, — You're in for it ! 
In that whispering gallery which people call 
the East, where everything is known before it 
happens to happen, rumours without end 
were coming to Cairo of what you were 
doing in Alexandria, but nobody in authority 
believed the half of it until your letters 
arrived at noon to-day, and now — heigho, 
for the wind and the rain ! 

" My dear dad is going about like an old 
Tom with his tail up, and as for the Consul- 
General— whew ! (a whistle, your Excellency). 

" Let me take things in their order, th :>ugh, 
so that you may see what has come to pass. 
I was reading your letter for the third (or 
was it the thirtieth?) time this afternoon, 
when who should come in but the Princess 
Nazimah, so I couldn't resist an impulse to 
tell her what your son of Hagar had to say on 
the position of Eastern women, thinking it 
would gratify her and she would agree. But 
no, not a bit of it ; off she went on the other 
side, with talk straight out of the harem, 
showing that the woman of the East isn't 
worthy of emancipation and shouldn't get 
it— yet. 

" It seems that if the men of the East are 
* beasts/ the women are 'creatures.' Love? 
They never heard oi s j<:h a thing. Husband ? 



The word doesn't exist for them. Not my 
master, even ! Just master ! Living together 
like schoolgirls and loving each other like 
sisters— think of that, my dear ! 
. "And when I urged that we were all 
taught to love one another — all Christians, 
at all events — she cried: 'What ! And share 
one man between four of you ? ' In short, 
the condition was only possible to cocks and 
tens, and that Eastern women could put up 
with it showed they were creatures — simple 
creatures, content and happy if their husbands 
(beg pardon, their masters) gave them equal 
presents of dresses and jewels and Turkish 
delight. No, let the woman of the East keep 
a little longer to her harem window, her 
closed carriage, and the wisp of mousseline 
de soie she calls her veil, or she'll misuse her 
liberty. ' Oh, I know. I say what I think. 
I don't care/ 

"As for your Ishmael, the Princess wouldn't 
have him at any price. He's just another 
Mahdi, and if he's championing the cause of 
women the son of a duck knows how to swim. 
IJis predecessor began by denouncing slavery 
and^cnded by being the biggest slave-dealer 
in the Soudan. Ergo, your Ishmael, who cares 
neither for ' the frowns of man nor the smiles 
of woman,' is going to finish up like Solomon 
or Samson, either as the tyrant of a hundred 
women or the victim of one of them whose 
heart is snares and nets. 'Oh, I know. 
Every man is a sultan to himself, and the 
tail of a dog is never straight' 

"But as for you, it seems you are 'a 
brother of girls,' which being interpreted 
means you are a man to whom God has 
given a clean heart to love all women as his 
sisters, and courage and strength to fight for 
their protection. ' Didn't I tell you that you 
had the best of the bunch, my child ? ' (She 
did, Serenity.) 'But though he is a soldier 
and>as brave as a lion, he has too much of 
the woman in him.' In this respect you 
resemble, it seems, one of the Princess's own 
husbands, but having had a variety of them, 
both right and left-handed, she found a diffi- 
culty in fixing your prototype. ' My first 
husband was like that — or no, it was my 
second — or perhaps it was one of the other 

"But this being so, O virtuous one, it 
became my duty to get you back from 
Alexandria as speedily as possible. ' Love, 
like the sparrows, comes and goes. Oh, I 
know. I've seen it myself, my child.' 

" ' And listen, my moon. Don't allow your 
Gordon' (she calls you Gourdan) 'to go against 
his father. Nuneham is the greatest man in 

the world, but let anybody cross him — mon 
Dieu 1 If you go out as the wind you meet 
the whirlwind, and serve you right, too.' 

"In complete agreement on this point, 
the Princess and I were parting in much 
kindness, when father came dashing into my 
drawing-room like a gust of the Khamseen 
(hot wind), having just -had a telephone 
message from the Consul -General requiring 
him to go down to the Agency without 
delay. Whereupon, with a word or two of 
apology to the Princess and a rumbling sub- 
terranean growl of ' Don't know what the 

d that young man . . ! he picked up 

your letter to himself and was gone in a 

"It is now 10 p.m. and he hasn't come 
back yet. Another telephone message told 
me he wouldn't be home to dinner, so I 
dined alone, with only Mosie Gobs for 
company, but he waits on me like my 
shadow, and gives me good advice on all 

" It seems his heart is still on fire with love 
for me, and, having caught him examining 
his face in my toilet-glass this morning, I was 
amused, and a little touched, when he asked 
me to-night if the Army Surgeon had any 
medicine to make people white. 

"Apparently, his former love was a small 
black maiden who works in the laundry, and 
he shares your view (as revealed in happier 
hours, your Highness) that there's nothing in 
the world so nice as a little girl except a big 
one. But I find he hasn't the best opinion 
of you, for when I was trying to while away 
an hour after dinner by playing the piano I 
overheard the monkey telling the cook that 
to see her hands (/.*., mine) run over the 
teeth of the music-box amazes the mind- 
therefore, why should her husband {id est, 
you) spend so much time in the coffee-shop ? 

" Since then I've been out in the arbour 
trying to live over again the delicious quarter 
of an hour you speak of, but though the wing 
of night is over the city and the air is as soft 
as somebody's kiss is (except sometimes), it 
was a dreadful failure, for when I closed my 
eyes, thinking hearts see each other, I could 
feel nothing but the sting of a mosquito, 
and could only hear the watchman crying 
' Wahhed ! ' and what that is you've only to 
open your mouth wide and then say it, and 
you'll know. 

" So here I am at my desk talking against 
time until father comes, and there's some- 
thing to say. And if you would know how I 
am mys^JfjiJppg^-felljipf^^most glorious 

and respected, thai 

iquil as can be 




expected considering what a fever you've put 
me in, for, falling on my knees before your 
unsullied hands, Serenity, it seems to me 
youre a dunce after all, and have gone and 
done exactly what your great namesake did 
before you, in spite of his tragic fate to warn 

"The trouble in Gordon major's case was 
that the Government gave him a discretionary 
power and he used it, and it seems as if some- 
thing similar has happened to Gordon minor, 

with the same results. I hope to goodness 
they may send you a definite order as the 
consequence of their colloguing to-night, and 
then you can have no choice^ and there will 
be no further trouble. 

"That is not to say that I think you are 
wrong in your view of this new Mahdi, but 
merely that I don't want to know anything 
about him. His protests against the spirit of 
the world may be good and beneficial, but 
peadif'Mriifiqiliet 'ifer-ttfethlfciAt'Jliis predictions 



about the millennium may be right, too, and 
if he likes to live on that dinner of herbs let 
him. Can't you leave such people to boil 
their own pot without you providing them 
with sticks? I'm a woman, of course, and 
my Moslem sisters may be suffering this, that, 
or the other injustice, but when it comes to 
letting these things get in between your 
happiness and mine, what the dickens, and 
the deuce, and the divil do I care ? — which 
is proof of what Mosie says to the cook about 
the sweetness of my tongue. • 

" As for your c Arab nobleman ' taking me 
by storm, no, thank you ! I dare say he has 
yellow nails, and if one touched the tip of his 
nose it would be as soft as Mosie's. I hate 
him anyway, and if you are ever again tempted 
to fight him, take my advice and fall I But 
look here, Mr. Charlie Gordon Lord ! If 
you're so very keen for a fight come here and 
fight me — I'm game for you ! 

"Soberly, my dear — dear, don't think I'm 
not proud of y6u that you are the only man 
in all Egypt, aye, or the world, who dares 
stand up to your father. When God made 
you he made you without fear — I know that. 
He made you with a heart that would die 
rather than do a wrong — I know that too. I 
don't believe you are taking advantage of 
your position as a son, either; and when 
people blame your parents for bringing you 
up as an Arab I know it all comes from 
deeper down than that. I suppose it is the 
Plymouth rock in you, the soul and blood of 
the men of the Mayflower. You cannot help 
it, and you would fight your own father for 
what you believed to be the right. 

" But, oh, dear, that's just what makes me 
tremble. Your father and you on opposite 
sides is a thing too terrible to think about. 
English gentlemen ? Yes, I'm not saying 
anything to the contrary, but British bulldogs 
too, and, as if that were not enough, you've 
got the American eagle in you as well. You'll 
destroy each other — that will be the end of it. 
And if you ask me what reason I have for 
saying so, I answer — simply a woman's, I 
know ! I know I 

" Father just back — dreadfully excited and 
exhausted — had to get him off to bed. Some- 
thing fresh brewing — cannot tell what. 

"I gather that your friend the Grand Kadi 
was at the Agency to-night — but I'll hear 
more in the morning. 

"It's very late and the city seems to be 
tossing in its sleep— a kind of somnambulent 
moan coming up from it They say the Nile 
is beginning to rise, and by the light of the 

moon (it has just risen) I can faintly see a 
streak of red water down the middle of the 
river. Ugh ! It's like blood and makes me 
shiver, so I must go to bed. 

"Father much better this morning. But 
oh ! oh ! oh ! ... It seems you are to be 
telegraphed for to return immediately. Some- 
thing you have to do in Cairo — I don't know 
what. I'm glad you are to come back, though, 
for I hate to think of you in the same city as 
that man Ishmael. Let me hear from you 
the minute you arrive, for I may have some- 
thing to say by that time, and meantime I 
send this letter by hand to your quarters at 

44 That red streak in the Nile is plain 
enough this morning. I suppose it's only the 
first water that comes pouring down from the 
clay soil of Abyssinia, but I hate to look at it. 

"Take care of yourself, Gordon, dear — 
I'm really a shocking coward, you know. 


"P.S. — Another dream last night ! Same 
as before exactly — that man coming between 
you and me." 

Returning to Cairo by the first train the 
following morning, Gordon received Helena's 
letter and replied to it : — 

"Just arrived, in obedience to their tele- 
gram. But don't be afraid, dearest. Nothing 
can happen that will injure either of us. My 
father cannot have wished me to arrest an 
innocent man. Therefore set your mind at 
ease and be happy. <joing over to the 
Agency now, but hope to see you in the 
course of the day. Greetings to the General 
and all my love to his daughter. — Gordon." 

But in spite of the brave tone of this 
letter, he was not without a certain uneasi- 
ness as he rode across to his father's house. 
"I couldn't have acted otherwise," he 
thought. And then, recalling Helena's hint 
of something else which it was intended he 
should do, he told himself that his father 
was being deceived and did not know what 
he was doing. " First of all I must tell him 
the truth — at all costs, the truth," he thought. 

This firm resolution was a little shaken 
the moment he entered the garden and the 
home atmosphere began to creep upon him. 
And when Ibrahim, his father's Egyptian 
servant, told him that his mother, who had 
been less well since he went away, was 
keeping her bed that morning, the shadow 
of domestic trouble seemed to banish his 
stalwart purpo<K>.Y OF MICHIGAN 



Bounding upstairs three steps at a time, he 
called in a cheery voice at his mother's door, 
but almost before the faint, half-frightened 
answer came back to him he was in the 
room, and the pale-faced old lady in her 
nightdress was in his arms. 

" I knew it was you," she said, and then, 
with her thin, moist hands clasped about his 
neck, and her head against his breast, she began 
in a plaintive, hesitating voice, as if she were 
afraid of her own son, to warn and reprove him. 

" I don't understand what is happening, 
dear, but you must never let anybody poison 
your mind against your father. He may be 
a little hard sometimes — I'm not denying 
that — but then he is not to be judged like 
other men — he is really not, you know. He 
would cut off his right hand if he thought it 
had done him a wrong, but he is very tender 
to those he loves, and he loves you, dear, and 
wants to do so much for you. It was pitiful 
to hear him last night, Gordon. ' I feel as if 
my enemy has stolen my own son/ he said. 
* My own son, my own son,' he kept saying, 
until I could have cried, and I couldn't sleep 
for thinking of it. You won't let anybody 
poison your mind against your father?— pro- 
mise me you won't, dear." 

Gordon comforted and kissed her, and 
rallied her and laughed, but he felt for a 
moment as if he had come back as a traitor 
to destroy the happiness of home. 

Fatimah followed him out of the room, 
and, winking to keep back her tears, she 
whispered some disconnected story of what 
had happened on the 'day on which his 
father received his letter. 

" Oh, my eye, my soul, it was sad ! We 
could hear his footsteps in his bedroom all 
night long. Sometimes he was speaking to 
himself. ' The scoundrels ! ' ' They don't 
know what shame is ! ' * Haven't I had 
enough ? And now he too ! My son, my 

Gordon went downstairs with a slow and 
heavy step. He felt as if everything were 
conspiring to make him abandon his pur- 
pose. " Why can't I leave things alone ? " he 
thought. But just as he reached the hall the 
Egyptian Prime Minister, who was leaving 
the house, passed in front of him without 
seeing him, and a certain sinister look in the 
man's sallow face wiped out in an instant all 
the softening effect of the scenes upstairs. 
"Take care!" he thought. "Tell him the 
truth, whatever happens." 

When he entered the library he expected 
his father to fly out at him, but the old man 
was very quiet 

" Sit down — I shall be ready in a moment," 
he said, and he continued to write without 
raising his eyes. 

Gordon saw that his father's face was more 
than usually furrowed and severe, and a voice 
seemed to say to him, " Don't be afraid ! " 
So he walked over to the window and 
tried to look at the glistening waters of 
the Nile and the red wedges of Pyramids 
across the river. 

" Well, I received your letter," said the old 
man, after a moment. " But what was the 
nonsensical reason you gave me for not doing 
your duty ? " 

It was the brusque tone he had always 
taken with his secretaries when they were in 
the wrong, but it was a blunder to adopt it 
with Gordon, who flushed up to the forehead, 
wheeled round from the window, walked up 
to the desk, and said, beginning a little 
hesitatingly, but gathering strength as he 
went on : — 

" My reason, father ... for not doing 
my . . . what I was sent to do . . . was 
merely that I found I could not do it without 
being either a rascal or a fool." 

The old man flinched and his glasses fell. 
" Explain yourself," he said. 

" I came to the conclusion, sir, that you 
were mistaken in this matter." 


" Possibly misinformed " 

" Indeed ! " 

" By British officials who don't know what 
they are talking about, or by native scoundrels 
who do." 

Not for forty years had anybody in Egypt 
spoken to the Consul-General like that, but 
he only said : — 

11 Don't stand there like a parson in a 
pulpit. Sit down and tell me all about it." 
Whereupon Gordon took a seat by the desk. 

" The only riot I witnessed in Alexandria, 
sir, was due simply to the bad feeling which 
always exists between the lowest elements of 
the European and Egyptian inhabitants. 
Ishmael Ameer had nothing to do with it. 
On the contrary, he helped to put it down." 

"You heard what he had said in the 
mosques ? " 

" I had one of his sermons reported to me, 
sir, and it was teaching such as would have 
had your own sympathy, being in line with 
what you have always said yourself about the 
corruptions of Islam and the necessity of 
uplifting the Egyptian woman as a means of 
raising the Egyptian man." 

" So you. decided, it seems " 

" 1 1 decided, father, lhalj.-tOL arrest Ishmael 



Ameer as one who was promulgating sedition 

and inciting the people to rebellion would be 

an act of injustice which you could not wish 

me to perpetrate in your name/' 
The Consul-General put up his glasses, 

looked for a letter which lay on the desk, 

glanced at it, and said : — 
" I see you say that before you arrived in 

Alexandria it was known you were to come." 
"That is so, sir." 

"And that after the riot you counselled 
the Governor to 
consent to the 
man's request 
that he should 
preach in public." 
" I did, sir. I 
thought it would 
be a good experi- 
ment to try the 
effect of a little 
moral influence," 
"Of course, 
the experiment 
was justified?" 

justified — the 
people dispersed 
quietly and there 
has not been a 
single arrest 
since,' 1 

(i But you had 
a battalion of 
soldiers on the 
spot ? " 

" I had — it was 
only right to be 
ready for emer- 
gencies, 3 ' 

The old man 
laughed bitterly, 
£t I'm surprised at 
you. Don't you 
see how you ? ve 
been hood- 
winked ? The 
man was warned 
of your corning 
— warned from 
Cairo, from El 
Azhar, which I 
find you were so 
foolish as to visit 
before you left 
for Alexandria. 
Everything was 
prepared for 
you. A trick, an 

Eastern trick, and you were so simple as to 
be taken in. I'm ashamed of you — ashamed 
of you before my servants, my secretaries." 

Gordon coloured up to his flickering, steel- 
blue eves and said : — 

Sl Father, I must ask you to begin by 
remembering that I am no longer a child and 
not quite a simpleton. I know the Egyptians, 
I know them better than all your people put 

" Better than your father himself, perhaps?" 

Original from 



" Yes, sir, better than my father himself, 
because — because I love them, whereas you — 
you have hated them from the first They've 
never deceived me yet, sir, and, with your 
permission, I'm not going to deceive them." 

The passionate words were hotly, almost 
aggressively spoken, but from some un- 
fathomable depth of the father's heart the 
old man was proud of his son at that moment 
— strong, fearless, and right. 

"And the sermon in public — was that also 
on the corruption of Islam ? " 

" No, sir ; it was about the spirit of the 
world — the greed of wealth which is making 
people forget in these days that the true 
welfare of a nation is moral, not material." 

" Anything else ? " 

" Yes— the hope of a time when the world 
will have so far progressed towards peace that 
arms will be laid down and a Redeemer will 
come to proclaim a universal brotherhood." 

"That didn't strike you as ridiculous — 
to w see one unlettered man trying to efface 
the laws of civilized society — asking sensible 
people to turn their backs on the facts of life 
in order to live in a spiritual hot-house of 
dreams ? " 

" No, father, that did not strike me as 
ridiculous, "because " 

"Because what — what, now?" 

"Becajus* John the Baptist and Jesus 
Christ did precisely the same thing." 

There was silence for a moment, and then 
the old man said : — % 

" In this golden age that is to come, he 
predicts, I am told, a peculiar place for Egypt 
— is that so ? " 

" Yes, sir. He holds that in the common- 
wealth of the world Egypt, by reason of her 
geographical position, will become the inter- 
preter and peacemaker between the East and 
the West — that that's what she has lived so 
long for." 

" Yet it didn't occur to you that this was 
sedition in its most seductive form, and that 
the man who promulgated it was probably 
the most dangerous of the demagogues — the 
worst of the Egyptians who prate about the 
natives governing themselves and the English 
being usurping foreigners ? " 

" No, sir, that didn't occur to me at all, 
because I felt that a Moslem people had a 
right to their own ideals, and also because I 
thought " 

" Well ? Well ? " 

" That the man who imagines that the soul 
of a nation can be governed by the sword — 
whoever he is, King, Kaiser, or — or Czar — 
is the worst of tyrants." 

The old autocrat flinched visibly. The 
scene was becoming tragic to him. For forty 
years he had been fighting his enemies, and 
he had beaten them, and now suddenly his 
own son was standing up as his foe* After a 
moment of silence he rose and said, with 
stony gravity : — 

" Very well ! Having heard your views on 
Ishmael Ameer, and incidentally on myself, 
and all I have hitherto attempted to do in 
Egypt, it only remains to me to tell you what 
I intend to do now. You know that this 
man is coming on to Cairo ? " 

Gordon bowed. 

" You are probably aware that it is intended 
that he shall preach at El Azhar ? " 

" I didn't know that, sir, but I'm not 
surprised to hear it" 

"Well, El Azhar has to be closed before 
he arrives." 


"That is what I said — closed, shut up, 
and its students and professors turned into 
the streets." 

"But there are six thousand of them — 
from all parts of the Mohammedan world, 

" That's why ! The Press as a medium of 
disaffection was bad enough, but El Azhar is 
worse. It is a hotbed of rebellion, and a 
word spoken there goes, as by wireless tele- 
graphy, all over Egypt It is a secret society, 
and as such it must be stopped." 

" But have you reflected " 

" Do I do anything without reflection ? " 

" Closed, you say? The University? The 
mosque of mosques ? It is impossible ! You 
are trifling with me." 

"Have you taken leave of your senses, 

" I beg your pardon, father. I only wish 
to prevent you from doing something you will 
never cease to regret. It's dangerous work 
to touch the religious beliefs of an Eastern 
people — you know that, sir, better than I do. 
And if you shut up your University, their 
holy of holies, you shake the foundations of 
their society. It's like shutting up St Peter's 
in Rome, or St. Paul's in London." 

" Both events have happened," said the 
old man, resuming his seat 

" Father, I beg of you tb beware. Trust 
me, I know these people. No Christian 
nation nowadays believes in Christianity as 
these Moslems believe in Tslam. We don't 
care enough for our faith to fight for it. But 
these dusky millions will die for their religion. 
And then there's Ishmael Ameer — you must 
see for yourself whsit maimer of man he 



careless alike of comfort or fame, a fanatic if 
you like, but he has only to call to the people 
and they'll follow him. All the wealth and 
well being you have bestowed on them will 
go to the winds and they'll follow him to a 

The Consul-General's lip curled again, and 
he said, quietly, " You ask me to believe that 
at the word of this man, without a penny and 
with his head full of worthless noise, the 
blue-shirted fellaheen will leave their com- 
fortable homes and their lands ? " 

41 Aye, and their wives and children, too — 
everything they have or ever hope to have ! 
And if he promises them nothing but danger 
and death, all the more they'll go to him." 

" Then we must deal with him also." 

" You can't — you can't do anything with a 
man like that — a man who wants nothing and 
is afraid of nothing — except kill him, and 
you can't do that either." 

The Consul-General did not reply imme- 
diately, and, coming closer, Gordon began to 
plead with him. 

"Father, believe me, I know what I am 
saying. Don't be blind to the storm that is 
brewing, and so undo all the good you have 
ever done. For Egypt's sake, England's, your 
own, don't let damnable scoundrels like the 
Grand Kadi and the Prime Minister play on 
you like a pipe." 

It was Gordon who had blundered now, 
and the consequences were cruel. The ruth- 
less, saturnine old man rose again, and on 
his square-hewn face there was an icy smile. 

"That brings me," he said, speaking very 
slowly, "from what / have done to what you 
must do. The Ulema of El Azhar have 
received an order to close the University. 
It went to them this morning through the 
President of the Council, who is acting as 
Regent in the absence of the Khedive. If 
they refuse to go it will be your duty to turn 
them out." 


" Yours ! The Governor of the city and 
the Commandant of Police will go with you, 
but where six thousand students and a dis- 
affected population have to be dealt with the 
military will be required. If you had brought 
Ishmael Ameer back from Alexandria this 
step might have been unnecessary, but 
now instead of one man you have to arrest 

" But if they resist — and they will — I know 
they will " 

"In that case they will come under a 
special tribunal as persons assaulting the 
members of the British Army of Occupation, 

Vol xxxviL— 3. 

and be dispatched without delay to the 
Soudan." % 

" But surely " 

" The Ulema are required to signify their 
assent by to-morrow morning, and we are to 
meet at the Citadel at four in the afternoon. 
You will probably be required to be there." 

" But, father " 

" We left something to your discretion 
before, hoping to give you an opportunity of 
distinguishing yourself in the eyes of England, 
but in this case your orders will be definite, 
and your only duty will be to obey." 

" But will you not permit me to " 

" That will do for the present. I'm busy. 
Good day ! " 

Gordon went out dazed and dumbfounded. 
He saw nothing of Ibrahim, who handed him 
his linen-covered cap in the hall, or of the 
page-boy at the porch who gave him his 
reins and held down his stirrup. When he 
came back to consciousness he was riding by 
the side of the Nile, where the bridge was 
open, and a number of boats with white sails, 
like a flight of great sea-gulls, were sweeping 

At the next moment he was at the entrance 
to his own quarters, and found a white motor- 
car standing there. It was Helena's car, 
and, leaping from the saddle, he went 
bounding up the stairs. 

Helena was at his door, with an anxious 
and perplexed face, talking to his soldier 
servant. At the next instant they were in 
each other's arms, and their troubles were 
gone. Her smile seemed to light up his 
room more than all its wealth of sunlight, and 
nothing else was of the smallest consequence. 
But after a moment she drew out a letter 
and said : — 

"I told father you were back, and he 
dictated a message to you. He was going 
to send it by his A.D.C., but I asked to be 
allowed to bring it myself and he consented. 
Here it is, dear." 

Gordon opened and read the General's 
letter. It was a formal request that he 
should be in attendance at the Citadel at 
four the following day to receive urgent and 
important instructions. 

"You know what it refers to, Helena?" 

"Yes, I know," she answered. 

The look of perplexity had returned to her 
face, and for some minutes they stood arm 
in arm by the open window, looking down at 
the Nile in a dazed and dreamy way. 

" What are you going to do, Gordon ? " 




* " I don't know— yet." 

" It will be an order now, and as an officer 
you can do nothing but obey." 

" I suppose not, dear." 

44 There are so many things calling for your 
obedience, too — honour, ambition, every- 
thing a soldier can want, you know." 

44 1 know! I know!" 

SHe crept closer and said, " Then there's 
something else, dear." 

44 What else, Helena?" 

44 Haven't I always told you that sooner 
or later that man would come between 

" Ishmael ? " 

44 Yes. Last night my father said . . . 
but I hate to mention it." 

" Tell me, dear, tell me." 

" He said, 4 You couldn't marry a man 
who had disobeyed and been degraded ? ' " 

44 Meaning that if I refused to obey orders, 
you and I, perhaps ... by arrangement 
between your father and mine, maybe " 

4t That is what I understood him to mean, 
dear, and therefore I came to see you." 

He flushed crimson for a moment and 
then began to laugh. 

" No, no ! I'll never believe that of them. 
It would be monstrous — impossible ! " 

But the questioning look in Helena's eyes 
remained and he. tried to reassure her. So 
many things might happen to remove the 
difficulty altogether. The Ulema might take 
the order of the Government as a protest 
against the visit of Ishmael Ameer, and send 
him instructions not to come to Cairo. 

44 He's here already, dear," said Helena. 

As she drove down from the citadel she 
had crossed a crowd of natives coming from 
the direction of the railway station, and 
someone had said it was a procession in 
honour of the new prophet, who had just 
arrived from Alexandria. 

" Then you've seen him yourself, Helena ? " 

" I saw a man in a white dress on a white 
horse, but I didn't look — I had somebody 
else to think about." 

He was carried away by the singleness of 
her love, and with a score of passionate 
expressions he kissed her beautiful white 
hands and did his best to comfort her. 

44 Never mind, dear ! Don't be afraid ! 
The Governors of El Azhar may agree to 
close their doors — temporarily, at all events. 
Anyhow, we'll muddle through somehow." 

She made him promise not to go near 
"the new Mahdi," and then began to draw 
on her long yellow driving gloves. 

44 J suppose the gossips of Cairo would be 

shocked if they knew I had come to see you," 
she said. 

44 It's not the first time you've been here, 
though. You're here always — see ! " he 
said, and with his arm about her waist he 
took her round his room to look at her 
portraits that hung on the walls. It was 
Helena here, Helena there, Helena every- 
where, but since that was the first time the 
real Helena had visited his quarters, she must 
drink his health in them. 

She would only drink it in water, and when 
she had done so she had to slip off her glove 
again and dip her finger into the same glass 
that he might drink her own health as well. 
In spite of the shadow of trouble which hung 
over them they were very happy. A world of 
warm impulses coursed through their veins, 
and they could hardly permit themselves to 
part. It was sweet to stand by the window 
again and look down at the dazzling Nile. 
For them the old river flowed, for them it 
sang its sleepy song. They looked into each 
other's eyes and smiled without speaking. It 
was just as if their hearts saw each other and 
were satisfied. 

At length she clasped her arms about his 
neck, and he felt the warm glow of her body. 

" You think that still, Gordon ? " 

"What, dearest?" 

"That love is above everything?" 

" Everything in the world," he whispered, 
and then she kissed him of herself, and 
nothing else mattered — nothing on earth or 
in heaven. 

When Helena had gone the air of his room 
seemed to be more dumb and empty than it 
had ever been before ; but the bell of the 
telephone rang immediately, and Hafiz spoke 
to him. 

Hafiz had just heard from his uncle that 
the Ulema were to meet at eight o'clock to 
consider what course they ought to adopt. 
The Chancellor was in favour of submission 
to superior force, but some of his colleagues 
of the reactionary party — the old stick-in-the- 
muds made in Mecca — not being able to 
believe the Government could be in earnest, 
were advocating revolt, even resistance. 

44 Hadn't you better go up to El Azhar 
to-night, Gordon, and tell them the Govern- 
ment means business ? They'll believe you % 
you know, and it may save riot, perhaps 

" I hadn't intf:rded to go there again, 



"You can — I'm sure you can. Let me 

call for you at eight, and we'll go up together." 

" Can't see why we shouldn't. . . . But 

wait ! Ishmael Ameer is in Cairo. Will he 

be there, think you?" 

" Don't know — should think it very likely." 

" Well, it can't be helped. Eight o'clock, 
then ! By-bye ! " said Gordon, and with that 
he rang off and wrote to Helena, telling her 
what he was going to do. He was going to 
break his word to her again, but it was only 
in the interests of peace and with the hope 
of preventing trouble. 

" Don't suppose these people can influence 
me a hair's breadth, dearest, he said, " and, 
above all, don't be angry." 

At eight o'clock Hafiz came for him, and, 
dressed in mufti, they walked up to the 
University. With more than usual ceremony 
they were taken to the Chancellor's room in 
the roof, and there, in a tense, electrical 
atmosphere, the Ulema were already assem- 
bled — a group of eigh| or nine rugged and 
unkempt creatures in their farageeyeh (a 
loose grey robe, like that of a monk), squat- 
ting on the divans about the walls. All the 
Governors of El Azhar were present except 
the Grand Kadi, and the only stranger there, 
except themselves, was Ishmael Ameer, who 
sat, in his spotless white dress and with his 
solemn face, on a chair beside the door. 

In silence, and with many sweeping 
salaams from floor to forehead, Gordon was 
received by the company, and at the request 
of the Chancellor he explained the object of 
his visit. It was not official, and it was 
scarcely proper, but it was intended to do 
good. There were moments when, passion 
being excited, there was a serious risk of 
collision between governors and governed. 
This was one of them. Rightly or wrongly, 
the Consul-General was convinced that the 
University of Cairo was likely to become a 
centre of sedition. Could they not agree to 
close it for a time, at all events ? 

At that the electrical atmosphere of the 
room broke into rumblings of thunder. The 
order of the Government was an outrage on 
the Mohammedan religion, which England 
had pledged herself to respect. El Azhar 
was one of the three holy places of the 
Islamic world, and to close it was to take 
the bread of life from the Moslems. " The 
Government might as well cut our throats 
at once and have done with it," said some- 

From denouncing the order of the Govern- 
ment, the Ulema went on to denounce the 
Government itself. It was eating the people ! 

It was like wolves trying to devour them ! 
" Are we to be body and soul under the heel 
of the infidel ? " they asked themselves. 

After that they denounced Lord Nuneham. 
He was the slave of power ! He was drunk 
with the strong drink of authority ! The 
University was their voice — he had deprived 
them of every other — and now he was trying 
to strike them dumb ! When somebody, 
remembering that they were speaking before 
the Consul-General's son, suggested that if 
he was doing a bad act it might be with a 
good conscience, an alim with an injured 
eye and a malignant face cried, " No, by 
Allah ! The man who usurps the power of 
God becomes a devil, and that's what Nune- 
ham is and long has been." 

Listening to their violence Gordon had 
found himself taking his father's part, and at 
this moment his anger had risen so high that 
he was struggling against an impulse to take 
the unkempt creature by the throat and fling 
him out of the room, when the soft voice of 
the Chancellor began to plead for peace. 

" Mohammed, blessed be his name, always 
yielded to superior force ; and who are we 
that we should be too proud to follow his 
example ? " 

But at that the reactionary party became 
louder and fiercer than before. "Our 
prophet in the Koran," cried one, " has 
commanded us not to seek war and not to 
begin it. But he has also told us that if war 
is waged against Islam we are to resist it 
under penalty of being ourselves as un- 
believers, and to follow up those who assail 
us without pity and without remorse. There- 
fore, if the English close our holy El Azhar 
they will be waging war on our religion, and, 
by the Most High God, we will fight them to 
the last man, woman, and child." 

At that instant Hafiz, who had been 
trembling in an obscure seat by the door, 
rose to his feet and said, in a nervous voice, 
addressing his uncle : — 

" Eminence, may I say something?" 

"Speak, son of my sister," said the Chan- 

" It is about Colonel Lord," said Hafiz, 
"If you refuse to close El Azhar, an order to 
force you to do so will be issued to the Army 
and Colonel Lord will be required to carry it 
into effect." 

" Well ? " 

" He is the friend of the Mussulmans, your 
Eminence, but if you resist him he will be 
compelled to kill you." 




eye, whereupon Hafiz wheeled round on him 
and answered, hotly : — 

" He has the bayonets and he has the 
courage, and if you fight him there won't be 
so much as a rat among you that will be left 

There was a moment of tense and breath- 
less silence, and then Hafiz, now as nervous 

as before, said quietly ; *' On the other hand, 
if he refuses to obey his orders he will lose 
his place and rank as a soldier. Which of 
these do you wish to see, your Eminence?" 

There was another moment of breathless 
silence, and then Ishmael Ameer, who had 
not spoken be fore > said in his quivering 
voice : — 

"hafiz wheeled hound o; 


Original from 




"Let us call on God to guide us, my 
brothers — in tears and in fervent prayer, all 
night long in the mosque, until His light 
shines on us and a door of hope has opened." 

As Gordon returned to barracks the air of 
the native section of the city seemed to 
tingle with excitement. The dirty, unpaved 
streets with their overhanging tenements were 
thronged. Framed portraits of Ishmael 
Ameer, with candles burning in front of them, 
were standing on the counters of nearly all 
the eafiS) and the men squatting on the 
benches about were chanting the Koran. 
One man, generally a blind man, with his 
right hand behind his ear, would be reciting 
the text, and at the close of every Sura the 
others would be crying, " Allah ! All^h ! M 

In the densest quarter, where the streets 
were narrowest and most full of ruts, the 
houses most wretched and the windows most 
covered with cobwebs, a company of 
dervishes were walking in procession, bearing 
their ragged banners and singing their weird 
Arab music to the accompaniment of pipes 
and drums, while boys parading beside them 
were carrying tin lamps and open Hares. 
Before certain of the houses they stopped, 
and for some minutes they swayed their 
bodies to an increasing chorus of " Allah ! 
Allah ! Allah ! " 

Gordon saw what had happened. With 
the coming of the new teacher a wave of 
religious feeling had swept over the city. 
Dam it up suddenly, and what scenes of 
fanatical frenzy might not occur! 

Back in his room, with the window down 
to shut out the noises of the river and the 
bridge, he tried to come to a conclusion as to 
what he ought to do the following day if the 
Ulema decided to resist They would resist ; 
he had no doubt about that, for where men 
were under the influence of gusts of religious 
passion they might call on God, but God's 
answer was always the same. 

If the Ulema were to decide not to close 
their sacred place they would intend to die 
in defence of it, and, seeing the issue from 
the Moslem point of view, that El Azhar was 
the centre of their spiritual life, Gordon con- 
cluded that they would be justified in resist- 
ing. If they were justified the order to evict 
them would be wicked, and the act of evic- 
tion would be a crime. " I can't do it ! " he 
told himself. " I can't and I won't ! " 

This firm resolve relieved him for a mo- 
ment, and then he began to ask himself what 
would happen if he refused to obey. The 

bad work would he done all the same, for 
somebody else would do it. "What then 
will be the result ? " he thought. 

The first result would be that he himself 
would suffer. He would be tried for insub- 
ordination, and, of course, degraded and 
punished. As a man he might be in the 
right, but as a soldier he would be in the 
wrong. He thought of his hard-fought fights 
and of the honours he had won, and his 
head went round in a whirl. 

The next result would be that he would 
bring disgrace on his father as well. His 
refusal to obey orders would become known, 
and if the consequences he expected should 
come to pass he would seem to stand up as 
the first of his father's accusers. He, his 
father's only son, would be the means of 
condemning him in the eyes of England, 
of Europe, of the world ! In his old age, 
too, and after all he had done for Egypt ! 

Then, above all, there was Helena ! The 
General would side with the Consul-General, 
and Helena would be required to cast in her 
lot either with her father or with him. If 
she sided with him she would have to break 
with her father ; if she sided with her father 
she would have to part from him. In either 
case the happiness of her life would be 
wasted — he would have wasted it, and he 
would have wasted his own happiness as 

This thought seemed to take him by the 
throat and stifle him. He leapt from the 
bed on which he had been lying in restless 
pain and threw open the window. The river 
and the bridge were quiet by that time, but 
through the breathless night air there came 
the music of a waltz. It was the last dance 
of the visiting season at an hotel near by — 
a number of British officers were dancing on 
the edge of the volcano. 

Gordon shut the window and again threw 
himself on the bed. At length the problem 
that tormented him seemed to resolve itself 
into one issue His father did not realize 
that the Moslems would die rather than give 
up possession of their holy place, and that in 
order to turn them out of it he would have 
to destroy them — slaughter them. A man 
could not outrage the most sacred of human 
feelings without being morally blind to what 
he was doing. His father was a great man — a 
thousand times greater than he himself could 
ever hope to be — but in this case he was 
blind and somebody had to open his eyes. 

" I'll go and bring him to reason," he 

^"^1^™ ffliwtefffl * he likes ' 

but no matter I 



A CO*il"A*tV UJ- Utl(V J.-^rlbS WfcKk WA|..^^ 

r» ^u^fci^iu;*. 

The hist cab had rattled home and the 
streets were silent when Gordon reached the 
entrance to the Agency. Then he saw that 
it was late, for the house was in darkness, 
and not even the window of the library 
showed a light The moon was full, and he 
looked at his watch. Good heavens ! It 
was two o'clock ! 

The house dog heard his footsteps on the 
r avel path* and barked and bounded towards 

him ; then, recognising him, it began to snuffle 
and to lick his hands- At the same moment 
a light appeared in an upper window. It was 
the window of his mother's room, and at 
sight of it his resolution began to ebb away, 
ami ht* was oner more seized with tin certainty. 
Strife between himself and his lather 
would extinguish the last ravs of his mothers 

Ji^ffF*- pFf,m&.!r her l ° okin & at 

him witn her pleading and mgntened eyes, 



"Am I really going to kill my mother — 
that too ? " he thought. 

He was as far as ever from knowing what 
course he ought to take on the morrow, but 
the light in his mother's window, filtering 
through the lace curtains that were drawn 
across it, was like a tear-dimmed, accusing 
eye, and with a new emotion he was 
compelled to turn away. 

As two o'clock struck on the soft cathedral 
bell of a little clock by the side of her bed, 
Fatimah rose with a yawn, switched on the 
electric light, and filled a small glass from a 
bottle on the mantelpiece. 

"Time to take your medicine, my lady," 
she said, in a sleepy voice. 

Her mistress did not reply immediately, 
and she asked : — 

" Are you asleep ? " 

But her lady, who was wide awake, 
whispered, "Hush! Do you hear Rover? 
Isn't that somebody on the path ? " 

Fatimah listened as well as she could 
through the drums of sleep that were beating 
in her ears, and then she answered : — 

" No ; I hear nothing." 

" I thought it was Gordon's footstep," said 
the old lady, raising herself in bed to take 
the medicine that Fatimah was holding out 
to her. 

" It's strange ! * Gordon's step is exactly 
like his grandfather's." 

" Don't spill it, my lady," said Fatimah, and 
with a trembling hand the old lady drank off 
her dose. 

" He's like his grandfather in other things, 
too. I remember when I was a girl there 
was a story of how he struck one of his 
soldiers in the Civil War, thinking the man 
was guilty of some offence. But afterwards 
he found the poor fellow was innocent and 
had taken the blow for his brother without 
saying a word. Father never forgave himself 
for that — never ! " 

"Shall I put on the eider-down? The 
nights are cold if the days are hot, you 

"Yes — no — just as you think best, 
nurse. . . . I'm sure Gordon will do what is 
right, whatever happens. I'm sorry for his 
father, though. Did you hear what he said 
when he came to bid me good night : ' They 
think they've caught me now that they've 
caught my son, but let them wait — we'll see.'" 

" Hush ! " said Fatimah, and she pointed 
to the wall of the adjoining room. From 
the other side of it came the faint sound of 
measured footsteps. 

"He's walking again — can't sleep, I 
suppose," said Fatimah, in a drowsy whisper. 

" Ah, well ! " said the old lady, after 
listening for a moment ; and then Fatimah 
put out the light and went back to her 

"God bless my boy!" said a tremulous 
voice in the darkness. 

After that there was a sigh, and then 
silence— save for the hollow thud of the 
footsteps in the adjoining room. 

Before Gordon was out of bed next morning 
Hafiz rang him up on the telephone. He 
had just heard from his uncle, the Chancellor, 
that as a result of their night-long deliberation 
and prayer the Ulema had decided to ask the 
Consul- General to receive Ishmael Ameer 
and listen to a suggestion. 

"What will it be?" asked Gordon. 

"That the Government should leave El 
Azhar alone on condition that the Ulema 
consent to open it, and all the mosques con- 
nected with it, to public and police inspec- 
tion, so as to dissipate the suspicion that they 
are centres of sedition." 

" Splendid ! To make the mosques as free 
as Christian churches is a splendid thought 
— an inspiration. But if the Government 
will not agree, what then ? " 

" Then the order to close El Azhar will be 
resisted. ' Only over our dead bodies,' they 
say, ' shall the soldiers enter it.' " 

Gordon went about his work that morning 
like a man dazed and dumb, but after lunch 
he dressed himself carefully in his full-dress 
staff uniform. He wore all his decorations 
— his Distinguished Service Order, the King's 
and war medal of the South African War 
with three clasps, the Soudan medal with 
four clasps, the Medjidieh, and the Khedive's 
star. It was not for nothing that he did so, 
or merely because he was going to an official 
conference, but with a certain pride as 
of a man who had won the right to 

Taking a cab by the gate of the barracks, 
he drove through the native quarters of the 
city and saw crowds surging through the 
streets in the direction of El Azhar. The 
atmosphere seemed to tingle with the spirit 
of revolution, and seeing the sublime instinct 
of humanity which leads people in defence 
of their faith to the place where danger is 
greatest, he felt glad and proud that what 
was best in him ^vas about to conquer. 

. , ^ffl™3fT^l^tt*l*? f ° u " d He, f en f K S 

black boy waiting for him at the door of the 



General's house with a message from his 
mistress, saying the gentlemen had not 
arrived and she wished to see him. The city 
below lay bright under the warm soolham of 
the afternoon sun, and the swallows were 
swirling past the windows of Helena's sitting- 
room, but Helena herself was under a cloud. 

" I see what it is — you are angry with me 
for going to El Azhar last night," said Gordon. 

" No, it isn't that, though I think you 
might have kept faith with me," she answered. 
" But we have no time to lose, and I have 
something to say to you. In the first place, 
I want you to know that Colonel Macfarlane, 
your Deputy Assistant Adjutant, has been 
ordered to stand by. He will be only too 
happy to take your place if necessary." 

" He's welcome ! " said Gordon. 

Her brows were contracted, her lips set. 
She fastened her eyes on him and said : — 

"Then there is something else I wish to 
tell you." 

"What is it, Helena?" 

"When my father asked me if I could 
marry a man who had disobeyed and been 
degraded, I said . . . But it doesn't matter 
what I said. My father has hardly ever spoken 
to me since. It has been the first cloud that 
has come between us— the very first. But 
when I answered him as I did there was 
something I had forgotten," 

" What was it, dearest ? " 

"I cannot tell you what it was — I can 
only tell you what it comes to." 

" What does it come to, Helena ?" 

"That whatever happens to-day I can 
never leave my father — never as long as he 

" God forbid that you should be tempted 
to do so — but why ? " 

" That is what I cannot tell you. It is a 

" I can think of no secret that I could not 
share with you, Helena." 

" Nor I with you — if it were my own — but 
this isn't." 

" I cannot understand you, dear." 

" Say it is somebody else's secret, and that 
his life, his career, depends upon it. Say it 
couldn't be told to you without putting you 
in a false position, involving you in responsi- 
bilities which you have no right to bear." 

" You puzzle me, bewilder me, Helena." 

" Then trust me, dear ; trust me for the 
present, at all events, and some day you shall 
know everything," she said, whereupon 
Gordon, who had not taken his eyes off her, 
said : — 

" So what it really, comes to is this — that 

whatever course your father takes to-day I 
must take it also, under pain of a violent 
separation from you ! Isn't that it, Helena ? 
Isn't it ? And, if so, isn't it like sending a 
man into battle with his hands tied and his 
eyes blindfold ? " 

She dropped her head, but made no reply. 

"That is not what I expected of you, 
Helena. The Helena who has been living 
in my mind is a girl who would say to me at 
a moment like this, ' Do what you believe to 
be right, Gordon ; and whether you are 
degraded to the lowest rank or raised to the 
highest honour, I will be with you — I will 
stand by your side ! ' " 

Her eyes flashed and she drew herself up. 

" So you think I couldn't say that — that I 
didn't say anything like it when my father 
spoke to me ? But if you have been thinking 
of me as a girl like that, I have been think- 
ing of you as a man who would say, i I love 
you, and do you know what my love means ? 
It means that my love for you is above every- 
thing and everybody in the world.' " 

" And it is, Helena, it is." 

" Then why," she said, with her eyes fixed 
on his, " why do you let this Egyptian and 
his interests come between us ? If you take 
his part after what I have just told you, will 
it not be the same thing in the end as choos- 
ing him against me ? " 

" Don't vex me, Helena. I've told you 
before that your jealousy of this man is 

The word cut her to the quick and she 
drew herself up again. 

"Very well," she said, with a new force, 
" if it's jealousy and if it's nonsense you must 
make your account with it. I said I couldn't 
tell you why I cannot leave my father — now 
I won't You must choose between us. It 
is either that man or me." 

"You mean that if the General decides 
against Ishmael Ameer you will follow your 
father, and that I — whatever my conscience 
may say — I must follow you ?" 

Her eyes blazed and she answered, " Yes." 

"Good God, Helena! What is it you 
want me to be? Is it a man or a 
manikin ? " 

At that moment the young lieutenant who 
was the General's aide-de-camp came in to 
say that the Consul-General and the Prime 
Minister had arrived, and required Colonel 
Lord's attendance. 

" Presently," said Gordon, and as soon as 

the lieutenant had pone he turned to Helena 



not a moment 



to lose, Re- 
member, this is 
the last time 1 
can see you be- 
fore I am required 
to act one way 
or other, God 
knows what may 
happen before I 
come out of that 
room. Will you 
send me into it 
without any 
choice ? " 

She was breath- 
ing hard and 
biting her under 


" Your happi- 
ness is dearer to 
me than anything 
else in life, dear ; 
but I am a man, 
not a child, and 
if I am to follow 
your father in 
order not to lose 
you, I must know 
why. Will you 
telf me?" 

Without rais- 
ing her eyes, 
Helena answered, 
u No ! " 

"Very well!" 
he said. "In 
that case it must 
be as the fates 
determine/ 1 And, 
straightening his 
sword - belt, he 
stepped to the 

Helena looked 
up at him and in 
a fluttering voice called, 4( Gordon ! " 

He turned, with his hand on the handle* 
"What is it?" 

For one instant she had an impulse to 
break her promise and tell him of her father's 
infirmity, hut at the next moment she thought 
of the Egyptian and her pride and jealousy 

'fiuOD <iOD, UKI.ElNA ! WHAT IS IT YOU WANT Mlffi Tu Etti 1 IS IT A MAN OH A MJMUttlN?" 

"What is it, Helena?" 

" Nothing," she said, and fled into her 

Gordon looked after her until she had 
disappeared, and then — hot, angry, nervous, 
less able than before to meet the ordeal 
before him — he turned the handle of the 
door and entered the General's office* 

Vol. juexvjL— 4. 

b yGo6gft 









Y reminiscences ? They do not 
go quite back to a pre- Vic- 
torian era, in spite of the 
impressions of many kindly- 
disposed people who have 
long looked upon me as a 
nonagenarian and cannot be convinced of 
my comparative (and, I should like to add, 
obvious) youth. The last reign was at least 
twenty years old before I was sent to my first 
school at Eastbourne. I fear the parting 
caused a pang to my mother, a lady whom 
many will remember for her benevolence \ 
whose life, indeed, was largely devoted to the 
welfare of her own sex. Afterwards I was 
packed off to Han well (not the Asylum, but 

the College), then in charge ot the Rev. 
James Emerton, IXD. 

I began to send contributions to news- 
papers when I was fourteen years old and 
at Han well College, The first periodica! I 
favoured with the fruits of my precocious 
pen was Fun, Shall I ever forget how, week 
after week, I flew to the bookstalls the 
moment the paper was published, only to 
search for my witty verses, sketches, and 
paragraphs, and, alas! with a sinking heart, 
to search in vain? My storytelling faculty 
was greatly developed at Han well, for in 
my dormitory were eight other boy% 
who formed, such an appreciative audi- 

^wrftftiHorwicflim permitted the 



luxury, no matter how sleepy I was, of a 
continued - in - our - next, but was obliged 
to carry out my plot to the bitter end. 
What connoisseurs they were in plots and 
detwuements ! If I tried to cut short a murder 
mystery by the introduction of a ghost as the 
perpetrator of the .crime, what a shower of 
indignant epithets, accompanied by boots and 
bolsters, came my way ! But even before that 
I had made my first appearance on any stage 
at the Theatre Royal Back Drawing Room. 
I actually went the length of writing a 
burlesque which was acted at home by my 
brothers and sisters to a large audience of 
cousins, aunts, and relations. 

When I was at Hanwell (the College, not 
the Asylum) the Brent was my favourite 
place of meditation, and it was by the side 
of that now "effluvient" stream that I sur- 
reptitiously smoked my first pipe. I was 
very ill after the experiment. At the time 
I thought it was the tobacco that upset me ; 
now I think it may perhaps have 
been the river. ! 

Dear old Brent ! We used to \ 
bathe in the Brent in those happy 
days, and we thought we were in- 
dulging in a healthy pastime. I 
wonder if it is to my early Brent 
bathes that I owe the sufferings of 
my later years ? "A fetid ditch 
polluting the air with deadly 
effluvium." And I thought it quite 
a romantic stream, and wandered 
beside it with my first sweetheart, 
the daughter of a local chemist. 
Had I known as much about the 
Brent then as I do now, I should 
have felt reassured by the fact that 
my fair one's papa was in that line 
of business. 

I often drive that way, and I 
always give a loving glance at those 
meadows and the little crawling 
Brent, and recall the old days when 
I dreamed dreams and thought out 
all the wonderful things I was going 
to do in the world. 

While at Hanwell I was a con- 
tributor to our College Gazette, 
some bound numbers of which, in 
a neat round hand, now lie before 
me. I have been since much 
amused by the following entry by 
a contributor, following an essay 
on entomology and another on 
composition : — 

" The weather has been very fine 
for the last week (only raining now 

and then), which allows us to play more out 
of doors than we could before. Skipping 
seems to be going out of fashion — how 
ridiculous to see a great boy like G. R. Sims 
with a skipping-rope ! " 

As a matter of fact, forty years later I was 
so convinced of the merits of skipping as a 
hygienic exercise that I took it up and 
recommended Dr. Bond's system publicly. 
Some of the comments on my hobby read 
very much like an echo of my schoolfellow's 
gibe when I was a "great boy " of fifteen. 

Once, many years afterwards, I drove with 
an old fellow-collegian to see our old college. 
We had neither of us visited the spot since 
boyhood. When we arrived, we found, alas ! 
a cleared space and a few bushes, and a 
notice-board that we were on "The College 
Estate." Still, we found a curious link 
between the past and present. On the spot 
where as boys we had played there lay a 
weather stained copy of the Referee, 











After Han well I went to Bonn to complete 
my education. While I was a student, one 
day I found myself at Ems. 

It was in the old days before the war, when 
one could put one's gulden on the board of 
green cloth at Ems, at Wiesbaden, at Baden- 
Baden, and at Horn burg. I was caught in a 
storm in the woods above Kms, and, spying 
a stranger stand nig under a dripping tree, I 
offered him half my umbrella, When the 
storm was over he thanked me and went his 
way. That night at the tables we met 
again ; he recognised me and stopped and 
spoke to me, and asked me if I had had 
good luck. It is astonishing how polite they 
were to me at the tables after that, and 
although I only played in modest silver, the 
croupiers would do their best to get me 
a seat, and treated me with the greatest 
distinction. I had entertained a Czare witch 
under my umbrella unawares* The gentle- 
man who had publicly asked me if I was 
having good luck was the heir to the throne 
of All the Russian I have never since had 
a chance of chatting publicly with Royalty, 
and have had to fall back upon sending it 

telegraphic messageSj or, rather, 
leaving telegraphic messages ad- 
dressed to it lying about unfinished 
oil the desks of Continental post- 
office bureaux. 

After that I took to a mercantile 
career for a time, varying my calling 
by dabbling in the literature of the 
day; I belonged to a club of 
Bohemians known as the Unity. 

We used to read our unpublished 
works to each other at the old 
Unity, but we weren't shining lights, 
and our works were unpublished for 
the best of all possible reasons, we 
couldn't find a publisher. In those 
days 1 had the knack of the ready 
rhymester (it has deserted me in my 
old age), and I used to perpetrate 
many atrocities in verse and recite 
them to the company in the small 
hours of the morning, It was at 
the Unity that George Purkess in- 
troduced me to the Swan boroughs, 
then the presiding deities of the 
"merry little Strand," and Arthur 
Swan borough gave me my first 
theatrical job — the writing of some 
new songs and lines in the burlesque 
of "The Field of the Cloth of 



"MY reminiscences:' 


Gold." It was at the Unity that I first met 
Henry Sampson. 

They are so long ago now, those old Unity 

days, that some of the faces I used to see 

around me in the old club day after day have 

faded out of my memory entirely. But I 

can see the dinner-table as it used to be on 

Saturday afternoons. We dined at three in 

those days — dined on homely English fare — 

big joints at either end of the table, with 

the chairman and the vice-chairman carving 

vigorously for a chaffing, merry crowd. I can 

see around that table, among the players and 

the journalists, the faces of young Bohemians 

who are now famous barristers and ornaments 

of the medical profession. There are no 

clubs like the Unity now, and the old 

Bohemian of those days is gone, to return 

never again. But it was a club of good 

fellows, and those days were happy days, 

and I am proud to have been one of the 

little band. 

I had many literary and journalistic idols 
as a boy. For George Augustus Sala, in the 
days of my youth, I had the most profound 
admiration, and when later on it was my 
privilege to enjoy his 
friendship and to cor- 
respond with him I 
felt that one of my 
earliest ambitions had 
been gratified. At the 
time when I devoured 
everything that came 
from his pen I had 
no idea that I should 
ever be admitted be- 
hind the scenes of a 
newspaper office. To 
appear under initials 
in the " Answers to 
Correspondents" was 
all that 1 could reason- 
ably hope to accom- 
plish in connection 
with the Press. When 
one fine day, or rather 
afternoon, I purchased 
a copy of the London 
Figaro^ then a daily 
sheet edited by Mr. 
James Mortimer, and 
found that the 
sprightly Almaviva — 
Mr. Clement Scott at 
that time, I fancy- 
had inserted a letter 

of mine in his columns, 

J feJt that I had only 

just begun to live. I was eight-and-twenty 
before I earned my first guinea as a journalist, 
and almost my first attempt was a " special 
correspondence " on the subject of the 
escape of the French Marshal Bazaine, 
written in burlesque imitation of the style of 
" G. A. S." 

When Tom Hood the younger died, the 
editorship oi Fun devolved upon Sampson, 
who invited me to contribute to that journal. 
I think I may say that as the " Lunatic 
Laureate " I scored my first success. I next 
undertook to furnish a column of notes to 
the Weekly Dispatch^ which appeared in that 
paper under the title of " Waifs and Strays." 
By and by — it was in 1877— Mr. Sampson 
projected the Re/tree^ whose principal con- 
tributors assumed the names of King Arthur's 
knights. To me was assigned " Dagonet," and 
I agreed to supply a weekly column on the 
social and political topics of the day, under 
the heading of " Mustard and Cress." These 
notes, since spread to nearly a page of the 
paper, have, I am proud to say, continued to 
this day. 

It was Mr. John R. Robinson who opened 

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Orig i na l from 

KIHlVffiSltrD'F Michigan 



to me the columns of the Daily News when 
the great question of the homes of the poor 
was a burning one, and gave me a free hand 
with " Horrible London " ; and although we 
differed widely on another great ll Home " 
question. Sir John R. Robinson was to his 
death one of my best friends. 

I had been juumeying through Slumland 
with the late Fred Barnard, the artist, in 
search of material for " How the Poor 
Live," when Dr How, afterwards Bishop 
of Wakefield, hearing of our investigations, 
at once personally interested himself in our 

He sent for me to his house at Clapton, 
and gave me advice and information which 
were of the greatest service to me later on 
when I undertook the series of articles, 
" Horrible London," for my good friend Sir 
John R. Robinson, of the Daily News. I 
have seen both ** How the Poor Live " and 
"Horrible London n described of late years 
as " melodramatic " and u sensational." The 
Bishop of Bedford, who knew the facts 
and was in direct communication with 
the workers in 
the poorest dis- 
tricts of London, 
did not take that 
view. On the 
contrary, it was 
he who brought 
the articles under 
the notice of the 
members of the 
Royal Com mi s- 
sion on the 
Housing of the 
Poor, and when, 
nervous and dis- 
trustful, I had to 
appear before 
the Commis- 
sioners and give 
evidence, the 
Bishop was the 
first to make me 

feel at ease* On more than one occasion he 
came to my rescue when I was being hard 
pressed as to certain statements, by saying 
that they were within his personal knowledge 
and in no way exaggerated 

The Referee Fund originated in 1882* I 
was engaged on "How the Poor Live." 
The district which I specially explored was 
Southwark, and it was while collecting my 
facts that a School Board officer, Mr, Arthur 
R, Moss, took rne to the Orange Street Board 
School and introduced me to Mrs. Burgwin, 


then the head mistress. From that date 
commenced my connection with Orange 
Street, the Mint, the Farm House— where 
the first dinners were given, and which is 
still one of our centres — and the district 
generally. It was Mrs, Burgwin who told 
me how many of the children came to be 
taught, shoeless, cold, and hungry. The 
" Oranges n — as we called those children — 
were amongst the poorest of London's little 
ones, and it was in connection with the 
Orange Street Board School and the Farm 
House that I started, five-and- twenty years 
ago, the fund which has now grown into the 
Referee Dinner Fund, 

It was after reading Colonel Hay's "Jim 
Bludso "one evening that, fired with ambition, 
I wrote my first u Dagonet Ballad." After 
knocking about Fleet Street for many months 
the ballad, which was called ** Jack's Story," 
first saw the light in the San Frantisco News 
Letter^ having bten forwarded to the editor 
by my friend and confrere on Fun^ Mr. 
Ambrose Bierce. 
Some years after I was sitting in a railway 

carriage at Pad- 
din gton Stut Ion 
en route for Mal- 
vern. As the train 
was starting a 
gentleman came 
to the carriage- 
door and said, 
" Are you the 
author of £ Billy's 
Rose'?" I 
blushed and con- 
fessed the soft 
41 Glad to meet 
you," said the 
gentleman. " Pm 
Colonel John 
Hay," Before 1 
had recovered 
from my con- 
fusion the train 
was shrieking its way out of the station. 

In those days I lived in Gower Street, and 
I was very happy there. In making this 
startling announcement I trust I shall not 
be misunderstood, I am not bragging or pre- 
tending to have accomplished a deed of 
heroism. People who know Gower Street 
will doubtless suspect me of exaggeration, or 
feel that I ought to have kept this announce- 
ment for a line on my tombstone. " He was 
happy in Gower Street n would be a notable 
addj ' 

ital inscriptions 




GEORGE. U. S\M5 E S . Q 



dear to the collector of churchyard comicality 
and necropolitan wit and humour generally. 
But I was happy in Gower Street, and I do 
not hesitate to say so. At one time I might 
have hesitated before risking my reputation 
for strict veracity by making such a statement 

My first real dramatic success came with 
"The Lights o' London," the title of which is 
associated in my mind with a tramp. I have 
always been interested in tramps, and I 
engage as many of them as possible in con- 
versation when I have the chance. I have 
before now 

tramped a long r — 

winter's day along i 
the North Road , 
with members of 
the fraternity. I 
have even shared 
the midday lunch 
of one of the 
brotherhood of 
the p i e d s 
poudreux, and 
that was the 
cheapest indiges- 
tion I ever had, 
for the lunch 
consisted of a 

raw turnip. We were both tramping in 
search of work, only he was looking for car- 
pentering and I was looking for " copy." It 
was that tramp who brought to my mind as 
we came to Highgate Archway, and saw the 
far-off glare of the City, the remark of Noah 
Claypole, made to his unfortunate female 
companion at the same spot. " Much farther ! 
Yer as good as there," said the long-legged 
tramper, pointing out before him. " Look 
there ! Those are the lights of London ! " 
And years afterwards I remembered the 
scene and the words, and used them first as 
the title of a song and then of a play. 

When " The Lights o' London " was pro- 
duced at the Princess's Theatre in 1882, one 
of the leading critics objected to the scene in 
which Seth is flung off St. Mark's Bridge into 
the Regent's Canal and rescued from drown- 
ing by Harold Armytage. The critic declared 
that to make this spot the scene of rescue 
was an absurdity — there wasn't enough water 
there to drown anybody. At the time I sent 
a private note to the gentleman, who was a 
very good friend of mine, inviting him to 
jump in and try, but he declined on the plea 
that it would spoil his clothes. 

Fifteen years later an old couple flung 
themselves into the Regent's Canal from St. 
Mark's Bridge. The woman was drowned 


and the man was saved. They couldn't live 
together, so they attempted to die together. 

It is twenty-seven years since Wilson 
Barrett dragged me in front of the curtain at 
the Princess's Theatre, on the first night of 
" The Lights o' London," to make as much 
bow as there was left in me. Dear, dashing, 
cheery, robust Wilson Barrett ! Once, a 
dozen years later, as I was writhing in the 
agonies of a comic song for a celebrated 
comedian, there burst into my study a radiant 
dream of effervescent manhood clad in 

evening dress, a 

— — ■ — — j mass of wavy 

hair, and a "Silver 
King" hat. "Just 
landed from 
America, old fel- 
low !" exclaimed 
the radiant one's 
cheery voice. 
"How are you? 
I rehearse to- 
rn or row, play 
Monday, a little 
tour, and open 
again in Boston 
in ten days." And 
he was gone, 
leaving me like a boy who has had a rocket 
go off in his hand in the back parlour. 

For a number of years I collaborated in 
my plays with my friend Henry Pettitt, who 
had previously collaborated with Paul Merritt. 
Merritt's real name was Paul John Metzger, 
and he was half a Russian and half a 
Yorkshireman. The nom de plume was 
assumed when he first began to write for the 
stage. One evening he was discussing with 
Pettitt, who was then a junior master at the 
North London Collegiate School, the idea 
of their working together as playwrights. 
"Let us be a firm," said Paul Metzger, "and 
have a business name. What do you say to 
our trading As ' Merit and Success'?" Henry 
Pettitt didn't quite see the name suggested 
for himself, but Paul Metzger adopted the 
" Merit," doubled the "r"and the "t,"and 
the " firm " started as " Merritt and Pettitt," 
and Merritt was the name he lived under 
the rest of his life. 

I suppose the episode in my journalistic 
career of which I am proudest was that which 
has come to be known as the Beck case. 

When in February, 1896, at the Central 
Criminal Court, Adolf Beck was convicted 
and sentenced, I contended that he was an 
innocent matiLQJniBlwrotc an article setting 
forth the facts and the reasons that convinced 



WHEN MK- SIM* HKcjUlkt.* ixsrlk a 1 V>K In WhIIIm, hi-: iSM 

JtaM a ^Atri*). ftp 

me that this was a striking case of mistaken 
identity, and the article was headed, " Where 
is John Smith?" T tried my best to get the 
Beck case reconsidered^ but failed, owing to 
the firm conviction of everybody who had 
taken part in his trial that it was impossible 
that a score of witnesses could be mistaken 
as to his identity. 

After Beck was released he came to me 
and I again took up the case, urging in the 
Referee that he was an innocent man who 
had suffered for another's guilt; and the 
editors of Lloyd's and of the IVeekfy 
Dispatch very kindly took up the case also 
at my request, and published the facts which 
made it absolutely clear to me that John 
Smith — a man who had previously been 
convicted of a series of frauds exactly on the 
same lines— had again been at work and that 
Hock had been mistaken for him. The 
police authorities gave me every assistance, 
but I failed to induce the Home Office to 
move in the matter. 

When Beck was arrested again in April, 
1904, and again charged with the same kind 
of fraud, sworn to by witnesses, and con- 
victed, his case seemed hopeless. The 
evidence was damning and yet Beck was 
innocent. It was "John Smith" at work 
again, and Beck had for a second time been 
mistaken for him by all witnesses. 


Gev, tf«rw* f Ltd, 

Fortunately for poor Adolf Beck, John 
Smith, one Vilvoir Weisen fulls, a German 
Jew, has been found. Now the truth is 
known beyond all shadow of a doubt, and 
one of the most remarkable cases of mistaken 
identity the world has ever known is placed 
on modern records. 

I contended for ten years that Beck was 
innocent, and now almost by a miracle the 
truth was revealed just as the unfortunate 
man was about to undergo a further long 
period of penal servitude* 

From first to last the mistake of the 
authorities was in not seeing that all the 
frauds were undoubtedly those of John Smith, 
and that Adotf Beck, as I proved con- 
clusively, could not be John Smith. 

As a result of the long campaign I was 
permitted to wage in the columns or the 
Daily Mail, a commission was appointed, 
consisting of the Master of the Rolls, Sir 
Spencer Walpole, and Sir John Edge, K + C, 
late Chief Justice of the North- West Pro* 
vinces of India, to report upon the mis- 
carriage of justice in his case, 

Mr. Beck was eventually given a Tree 
pardon, and the Home Office awarded him 
five thousand pounds compensation. 

It is no secret amongst my friends that for 
many years I have had a weakness, not only 
for horses and dogs, but for dolls. I am 







really much attached to ray collection of 
dainty poupees^ and often spend my spare 1 
hours in their company, in which respect I 
anticipated Mrs. Solness in Ibsen's famous 

Somehow or other the idea that I love 
dolls tickled my friends immensely, and I 
received many letters on the subject, A 
celebrated divine informed me that he too 
loved dollsj and that a great temptation 
which all his life he has had to guard against 
is a temptation to piny with his dolls on 
Sunday, A lady in distress wrote me that it 
is wicked for a man to love dolls when there 
are so many neglected babies about, and 
offered me a couple of live infants just ready 
for adoption. 

I have in my library a collection of the 
celebrated murders of the first three-quarters 
of the last century. Most of them are in 
hook form, with illustrations and portraits, 
and exhaustive speeches of counsel and notes 
by the editor, and some 
of the older volumes 
run to over three 
hundred pages. The 
murders of to-day, how- 
ever startling, are left 
in the newspapers in 
which they first appear 
The world is too busy, 
it has too much to see 
and hear and read every 
day, to go back on any- 
thing. Sufficient unto 
the modem murder is 

VoL swcxviL— 5, 

f Vwn o Pfcefo. M "fi 

by Google 

the day thereof. It is so with most other 
things, even with the great General* the great 
explorer, the great inventor, and (with the 
exception of Lord Beaeonsfjeld, who owes 
his staying powers to Primrose Day) the 
great statesman. We no longer give our 
heroes statues during their lifetime- By the 
time the statue was finished and erected half 
the world would have so far forgotten the 
gentleman's performance that they would 
inquire who he was and what he had done. 

Sometimes, when the midnight oil burns 
low and I sit alone and brood far into the 
night T I ask myself if this is what I have 
been fighting the battle of life to gain. And 
at times, when I am out of health and low- 
spirited, I am inclined to throw down my 
weapons. But with the daylight hope and self- 
reliance return, and I buckle on my armour 
and go forth to the battlefield again, deter- 
mined to conquer or die with my face to the 
foe and my sword in my hand. I do not think 
it wise lor authors and 
dramatists to rush into 
print over their griev- 
ances or to show them- 
selves unduly sensitive 
to criticism. If we are 
sometimes slapped 
on the face we are 
also frequently patted 
on the back, and we 
must take the bad 
with the good and be 
thankful that the bad 
is not worse. 

{T. FalL 

Original from 

AKE SILSO tapped the to- 
baeco down into the bowl of 
his pipe and gave a little sigh 
of content. There was every 
sign of approval in the gaze 
with which he reviewed the 
lumber camp. Though his lips were set 
upon the stem of his pipe, his eyes smiled 
broadly at his companion, 

" Maple -syrup cakes for supper," he 

11 'Ow dyer know?" demanded Hingllsb 

Jake made a gesture towards the open 
door pf one of the log huts. 

" I saw Baby go m an' then come out with 
her hands tucked under her apron, k eerie ss- 
like. She was hidin' the tin so's the boys 
wouldn't guess. But 1 know the ways of 
her — I ain't had the rarin' of her these eigh- 
teen years without gettin' an insight into her 
tricks and her manners/' 

" You think yourself powerful smart," 
grunted his companion, M but you ain't got 
to seein' so amazin* far, all the same. Else 
you'd quit callin' 'er that rediklous name, 
'Baby/ indeed!" 

This sudden outburst shook Jake's imper- 
turbability to its very depths. It was only 
by a supreme effort that he caught the pipe 
which dropped from between his teeth. 

" Why — why, what d'you want to call her, 
Joe ? Tl he demanded, 

"Somethink sensibler than thai" growled 
the other. " Ain't I seed 'er grow up from 
the time as I joined this gang fifteen years 
ago? But that don't blind me from under- 
standi n* that now she's a woman. Bless and 
save us all, as womany a one as you'll find 
between this and Vancouver ! " 

Jake lifted his cap and passed his fingers 
bewilderedly through his iron-grey hair. 

" But— but she's my— my ktddyt yy he 

" She's your daughter/ 1 allowed Joe, grudg- 

Dig.'.ized by CjOOglC 

ingly, " and a precious old fool she's got for 
a father if you reckon that you and a packet 
of candy is going to be the last of her wants 
from now to nevermore. It's been sweeties 
so far. You look out as it ain't sweethearts 
before you've time to call next ! " 

Jake's eyes grew rounder and rounder, 

" But— but " he began. Joe inter- 
rupted him with a rush. 

41 And you needn't think as I'm the only 
one in this yer camp of hard shell bachelors 
that's made the discovery* You watch out 
for Sam Curtis when you see them together." 

Jake's face lit up. 

u Sam I " he repeated, " Sam ! " This time 
there was a sort of wondering satisfaction in 
his tone, "I don't know T any man I think 
more of than Sam/' he said, slowly, "but 
he's forty if he's a day ! * 

" Forty don't turn a man into a graven 
image/ 1 snapped Joe. " He's ready to kiss 
the ground she stands on ! " 

Jake's eyes were still something saucer-like. 

"D'you reckon she — shzkn&ztfs it?" he 

" She I " Exasperation was loud in Joe's 
voice. "She don't know nothink ! She 
mothers us ! 'Cos why ? 'Cos there ain't a 
man that isn't twenty years older than herself 
in camp, and naturally it wouldn't get into 'er 
pretty little 'ead to do any think else for such 
a collection of fossils I But if somethink 
young happens along? Then you'll seel" 
He rose, slowly tapped out his pipe upon the 
log on which he had been sitting, and saun- 
tered down towards the cabins. 

What had dragged up the idea of Sam 
Curtis into Joe's woolly old brain? Jake 
laughed, half anxiously, half sneeringly, 
and then rose to follow his friend to where 
the subject of discussion was waving the 
apron which signified supper. 

He looked at his daughter keenly and with 
a sense of realization of her prettiness which 
he had pever known before. He noted the 


"£ABY> n 


rose flush of her cheeks, the sea-blue light in 
her eyes, the wonderful gleam and gloss of 
the gold which lit her hair. 

Yes, it was true, he told himself. Baby 
was a woman. He read it in her smile — 
heard it in every tone of her voice. And 
that was not the worst of it, for his gaze 
travelled on to examine his unconscious 
comrade, Sam, He almost groaned. There 
was certainly nothing paternal in the glance 
with which Sam was devouring Baby. It was 
the yearning look of a man towards his very 
heart's desire. 

His meditations kept Jake very silent 
through the evening, stood between him and 
his sleep that night, and made a discomfort- 
ing cloud at the next morning's meal. 

Fate has her own sharp sword to divide 
such tangles as Jake's, A few hours later 
Baby Silso turned 
from her cooking 
at the sound of a 
hurried step. She 
looked up in sur- 
prise and even — 
at that moment — - 
with an instinctive 
throb of fear, for 
the gang were fell- 
ing a couple of 
miles from camp 
and were not ex- 
pected back till 
evening. It was 
Sam who entered. 
As she recog- 
nised the new- 
bom sympathy in 

his eyes fear grip- 
ped and enveloped 

her with its chill 

premonition. She 

gasped— one word 1 

"Dad?" she cried 

and thrust out her 

hand to him for 


"Somethin 1 — 

somethin' must 

have ailed him," 

he answered, 

brokenly- M Joe 

an'Val were fellin' 

fifty yards from us 

when JAke stepped 

across to take his 

axe to the stone. 

All of a sudden 

somethin' seemed 

to get his attention ; he stopped and stared— 
at nothin' ! They'd give the last chop before 
they'd seen him, and they hollered like all 
possessed. But it was too late then — he 
didn't move— he didn't seem to hear a thing ! 
The tree pitched out into the open, and the 
top branches took him. His back " — 
Sam's voice wavered miserably — " he can't 
feel nothin' below the middle of it*" 

She clung to him, gasping. Her hand 
went up to her throat. Impulsively, breath- 
lessly she stumbled towards the door and out 
into the open, arid almost on the threshold 
met the file of bearers moving with the heavy 
step of those who carry sorrow. 

Tenderly they laid the dying man upon his 
cot, and as they did so his eyes opened 
w T ith a patient and almost wondering gaze. 
They fell upon the girl who knelt beside the 




bed. He smiled ; his hand reached out and 
touched her hair. 

" Baby," he said, quietly, and then a half- 
humorous, half -puzzled expression replaced 
the smile. "Joe says it ain't no name for 
you," he whispered, " but — but I don't 

Suddenly, as if remembrance woke a new 
emotion, the watchers saw anxiety grow in 
his glance. It sought for and rested on 
Curtis. With a faintly pleading gesture the 
brown hand beckoned. 

Sam's fingers caught and gently closed 
upon it, and Jake's smile shone out again. 

" I'll be reckoning on you, Sam, if —if I 
have to go," he said. " Baby ! Are you 
there, my lass? I don't seem to see just 
clear. " 

A sob quivered in her voice. 

" Here, dad ! " she answered. " Here, 
beside you." 

The smile brimmed the fading eyes with 

"I knew it, dearie, but — but it's dark. 
And so you'll stick by Sam, won't you, 
sweetheart? He's strong, is Sam, and— and 

safe. If I'm still here by morning " 

The languid voice halted and then woke 
from its pause into sudden triumphant 
strength. " Why," cried Jake, in glad sur- 
prise, t: it's morning now!" and passed, with 
a sigh of supreme content, towards that morn 
which knows no eventide. 

And so, for Baby, began the new life, new 
—but fashioned on the foundations of the 
old. For, after the simple funeral, after the 
numbing weeks of misery which succeeded 
her loss, life came back to her with the 
healing for sorrow which — God be thanked — 
can always come for the young and for those 
who have work as the anodyne of pain. No 
thought of change came to her — to one of 
her upbringing and innocence, indeed, it 
could not come. The camp and its occu- 
pants held the whole of her interest. 

Hinglish Joe was the first to make her 
understand that the situation had other 
aspects. He came to the point with bluntness. 

" When do you and Sam reckon to get 
spliced ? " he asked, as they sat together one 
evening, waiting supper for the others, who 
had gone down to the river to net salmon. 
" There ain't nothink to wait for as I can 

The girl stared at him in amazement. 

" Spliced ! " she cried. " Me — and Sam ! " 

" You ain't fixed up a particular day, likely 
enough," agreed Joe, amiably ; " but what I 
sayis-whynot?" , by QoOgU 

" But — but we've never even thought of 
such a thing ! " she protested, in bewilder- 
ment. " Where did you get the notion, Joe ?" 

It was his turn to be surprised now. He 
took the pipe out of his mouth and gaped in 

"Your dad arranged it," he declared. 
"Why, m my girl, it was the last thing he 
found breath for." 

" My dad ! " The emotions chased each 
other across her features. 

" I — I didn't understand," she stammered. 
" Does — does Sam " 

" Does Sam understand ? " interrupted 
Joe, with a dry little laugh. " I reckon he 
does, my dear. I reckon there ain't much 
else in heaven or earth as he's given two 
thoughts to since your father handed you 
into his keeping." 

She stared into his eyes with the same 
puzzled expression which Jake had worn six 
weeks before. Her breath came quickly. 

" But— but he hasn't said anything," she 
pleaded. "I — I think I'd have to get used 
to — to the idea, Joe." 

He shrugged his shoulders. 

" Ain't you got used to him in fifteen 
years ? " he answered, dryly. " / can't see 
much that wants changing. He's one of the 
best from Bestville, is Sam." 

11 He is — of course he is ! " she cried. " I 
love him— I love him the same as I love you 
all. But— but " 

"But?" repeated Joe, doggedly. "But 
what ? " 

" But he'd be a— a husband^ Joe," she 
answered. " I — don't — think — I — can— yW 
— that, somehow." 

Joe smote the bowl of his pipe upon the 

" There ain't two words to it ! " he decided. 
" You ought ter get married ! " 

She looked at him with still startled eyes. 

" There's no hurry ! " she pleaded. " It 
couldn't be right with father only dead a few 
weeks ? " 

There was the sound of a sob in her voice, 
the shadow of unshed tears in her eyes. 
With an old man's horror of anything 
approaching a "scene," Joe got up and 
shuffled uncomfortably towards the door. 
But he made his last pronouncement grimly. 

" It's your duty to marry Sam," he gave 
sentence. " It's your bounden duty ! " 

For a minute she sat silent, staring into the 
fire with the bewildered air of a child 
punished for some action which had been 
unexpectedly ranked as a fault. It seemed 
that she had been unfaithful — to her dead 




father's wish! She was rebelling against his 
authority! This conviction grew in her 
mind as she debated it — she began to 
reproach herself — to build resolutions of 
immediate amendment. But how and when? 
For it came home to her startlingly that the 
first move could not come from herself. 

And then Kate, who had interfered in her 
affairs so drastically before, repeated the 
experiment , again using Hinghsh Joe for the 
first convenient tool which came to hand. 

His voice called loudly from the forest 
darkness for a light 

i£ A lantern!" the old man was yelling, 
" Ix>rd J s sake, bring a lantern -and quick I " 

She snatched the lamp from the table, 
flung her shawl over her head, and ran into 
the shadow of the firs* 

In her haste she stumbled, half fell, and 
then realized that it was not a log over which 
she had tripped, but the limbs of a man ; his 
head was leaning against Joe's breast. 

The yellow light gleamed upon a white 
face, a drooping blond moustache, the 
sunken lines of throat and cheek. For a 
moment Baby quivered and flinched as youth 
and health flinch in the presence of Death, 
Old Joe saw and understood, 

" He's alive!" he cried, savagely. "His 
heart's goin' like a clock. This ain't a place 
for fine airs ! Lift his legs, my girl — lift 'era 
up an 1 get 1m inside. It's just emptiness 
that's the matter — just sheer hunger an' want." 

With instinctive obedience she did as she 
was told. Within a minute the almost in- 
animate body was lying on Joe's cot, and 
spoonfuls of the hot soup which awaited the 
fishermen were being forced between the cold 
lips. Almost imperceptibly at first, but with 
pulses which by degrees grew firmer, the 
blood filtered back to the wan cheeks. The 
man stirred, sighed, and opened his eyes. As 
they fell upon Baby he rocked awkwardly up 
into a sitting posture. 




" Ain't — ain't I dead y then ? " he demanded, 

"Dead! Dead nothink!" retorted Joe. 
" Drink that, Mister Dead Man, before we 
hear from you again. We ain't ordered no 
coffins yet ! " 

He tipped the bowl of broth against the 
other's lips and held it there insistently till 
the contents had disappeared. Then he gave 
a chuckle. 

"Want to inform the coroner?" he 
derided. " You've been shammin', that's 
what you've been doin'," he added, with a 
rough attempt to hide his very evident 

The man dropped his feet to the floor and 
leaned against the wail. 

" I haven't had a morsel for three days," he 
said, quietly. " I saw your light — I was just, 
so to speak, reaching out to it — when I went 
down. I'm — I'm afraid I've been a bother, 
miss," he deprecated, with a little bow in 
Baby's direction. 

Her face glowed with a sort of fascination 
of pity. Everything that was maternal in her 
yearned to him. 

"Why — why, it strangles me to think of 
you lying out there and us not knowing!" she 
said. " Sit down — sit right down this minute 
and begin supper. Three days' starving ! I 
can hardly dare to think of it ! " 

They hovered round him as he ate, plying 
him with food. Little by little, between 
mouthfuls, his story was told. It was simple 
enough — the forest has written the closing 
chapter for many such where none can read 
it. Two men, all ignorant of the water-ways, 
setting out by canoe to reach one of the 
distant mining camps. A portage missed — 
unexpected rapids encountered — a false stroke 
of the steering paddle — and disaster. John 
Graham had been flung out from between 
the white fangs of the fall to find himself 
companionless and destitute in the loneliness 
of the backwoods. Keeping by instinct to 
the river bank, he had stumbled on till 
famine had done its work. And Fate had 
made Joe the instrument of his safety 
because Fate has her own methods of flying 
in the face of human desire. 

For if Hinglish Joe could have foreseen 
the consequences of his act, would he have 
rejoiced as he did in his own gruff way over 
the human derelict to whom he had acted 
the part of Providence ? Would his feelings 
have carried him so far that he would have 
done as he did the next morning, and pro- 
pose that his protfgt should take Jake's vacant 
place in the gang ? Would he have adduced 

Digitized by Vji 

every possible form of argument to counter 
his comrades' mild objections that lumbering 
wasn't learned in a day, and that you couldn't 
expect a green hand to be worth even his 
keep for weeks ? Perhaps not, but Fate had 
made up her mind and was not listening to 
objections. And Joe's pupil was not without 
natural abilities either. Within a week his 
preceptor was able to announce with a grin 
of triumph that the "green hand" had 
chopped through a two-foot trunk without 
a miss-hit, and within thirteen and a half 
minutes by the only Waterbury in camp. So 
absorbed, indeed, was the old man in these 
matters of a lumberman's education that 
it was a full month after Graham's arrival 
before he found time to concern himself again 
in Baby Silso's future. 

This time Sam was the object of his attack. 
He opened it in precisely the same form as 
he had used four weeks before. 

"When do you and Baby reckon to get 
spliced?" he asked, in matter-of-fact tones, 
as he and Sam busied themselves in stripping 
a giant pine beside the river. "Time's 
gettin' on and nothink hinderin', is there ? " 

Sam halted in a blow and leaned upon his 
axe. A queer glint of anger shone in his 
eyes, a shadow clouded his (ace. 

11 Nothin' hinderin' ? " he repeated, slowly. 
" I reckon if anything's been more of a 
hindrance than another, it's you, Joe." 

Joe's jaw dropped. He gaped at his com- 

"Are you in your right mind, Sam?" he 
cried. " Me ? " 

" You 1 " retorted the other, grimly. "You, 
when you brought that young come-by-chance 
into camp to upset us all — us that's been the 
comfortablest gang that ever trimmed a log 
till now. Yes, you, my lad, and it's as well 
you should know it" 

Joe's astonishment did not abate — rather 
it increased. , 

"You mean ter tell me," he began, "you 
mean to tell me " 

" I mean to tell you this," said Sam, " that 
he's in love with our Baby, and when he tells 
her so " 

Joe interrupted with an exclamation of 

" When ! " he cried. " Are you comin* to 
me with this yer fool's tale without any sort 
of evidence to back it ? What's 'e satd f " 

" Nothing," answered Sam, gloomily. " But 
I ain't blind. Can't I see him look at her ? 
And what's more, can't I see her look back?" 

Joe laid down his axe and put his hand 
upon his comrade's arm, 




u Sam Curtis," he said, impressively, " like 
most men in love, you're several kinds of 
tool. I didn't reckon, though, that you'd be 
the jealous kind. As if the girl would take 
any notice of young John seriously when she 
knows 'er father's wishes on 'is dying bed ! 
You don't want 'er to treat the lad as if he 
come out of a pest 'ouse. Let 'er look at 
'im. She knows it's you she's got to marry." 

" Does she ? " retorted Sam. " And why ? " 

" For one thing, 'cos 1 told 'er," returned 
Joe, triumphantly, " Not more than a month 
back the subject came up between us. 
Surprised she may have been, but I made 'er 
see where 'er duty lay. Now it's you that's 
been hinderin'— you she's been waitin' for; 
and my advice to you is, don't keep 'er 
waitin' a moment longer." 

Sam shook his head. Forest-bom and 
forest-bred, without experience of women to 
guide him, he was not, all the same, with- 
out instincts that took the place of know- 
ledge. That Baby Silso would never look 
at him as she looked at John Graham was 
a conviction in his solid, sensible mind. 
But with a lover's longing he caught at half 
hopes while Joe's assurance was so over- 
whelming. The upshot of further argument 
led him to promise to put the matter to a 
test that very evening. 

Fate, still playing her own game, made it 
a stormy one. A western gale roared among 
the pine-tops. 

The evening meal was done. Baby might 
reasonably be expected to be found in her 
kitchen, washing up and making preparations 
for the next morning's early breakfast, and, 
therefore, alone. Very conscious of the 
beating of his own heart, Sam stalked slowly 
in through the open cook-house door. 

The place was dark and empty. 

A throb of rage shot up into Sam's bosom. 
All the jealous misgivings of the past few 
weeks took flame. Swearing below his breath 
he blundered out into the open. 

A moonbeam sank through the scud of 
flying clouds, and fell upon the great log at 
the edge of the clearing. Two figures leaned 
against it A dozen strides, and he stood 
before the pair. He towered over them in 
his anger as if passion had added inches to 1 
his height. And his voice was almost un- 

"Come in — you !" he commanded, hoarsely. 
11 Come away in ! Ain't you ashamed to be 
hangin' about after — after him this hour of 

The moonlight beat upon the horrified 
amazement which covered the two young 

Digitized by CiOO^lC 

faces turned to his, and then, on Graham's 
face, amazement turned to rage. He strode 
forward till he nearly touched Sam's shoulder. 

" What's that you said ? " he cried, savagely. 
"What's that?" 

" I say this ! " snarled Sam, jealousy strip- 
ping him of every bit of self-possession that 
he owned. " That it ain't respectable for a 
girl to be followin' you like a dog when she's 
another man's promised wife ! " 

The younger man's cry was scarcely human 
in its agony of surprise. He thrust out his 
arms as if he pushed away some horrifying 

" It's a lie ! " he thundered. " It's a lie ! " 
His voice brimmed with passion and, as he 
turned to the girl beside him, with appeal. 

He laid his hand upon her arm — he shook 
it. " Say it's not true ! " he pleaded, wildly. 
"Say it!" 

She looked up, first at him and then at 
the other. Her face was drawn with throes 
of indecision. She tried to speak — stam- 
mered — and finally burst into a storm of 
weeping. Her voice came low and muffled 
through the fingers which she clasped before 
her face. 

"I don't know!" she wailed. "Oh, I 
don't know ! " 

Curtis beat his hand upon the log. 

" You know and you've got to tell ! " he 
said. ** Make the best tale you can of it, for 
to-night's the last night of fast and loose. 
To-morrow the whole gang'll hear as you're 
to be my wife — mine ! And as for you, my 
lad" — he turned with an accusing gesture 
upon Graham — "you can take your philander- 
ing back to the no-man's-land or the jail you 
was flung from ! " 

He swung out his hand again with a motion 
of contempt, wheeled, and passed back into 
the darkness. The storm roared on over the 
lovers' heads, but the tempest of Baby's weep- 
ing was silenced — against • John Graham's 
breast. He drew her to him, encircling her 
with his arms. 

" My darling — my darling !" he whispered. 
"Tell me the truth— the whole of it — and we 
can face them all — together ! " 

Word by word, sentence by sentence, she 
faltered it out — her ignorance of her father's 
meaning, her innocent astonishment at Joe's 
interpretation of it, her desire to do right, 
and then, shyly, shamefacedly, the acknow- 
ledgment of what the last month had done 
to weaken and break her resolution. 

As he listened John Graham's face shone 
with a lover's ecstasy. 

" I thank him for his outburst ! " he cried, 




*' *SAV ir'i NOT TKUfc! 1 UK ILtAnKD, WILDLY,' 

joyously. " It's won for me to-night what 1 
shouldn't have dared to ask for for months. 
It's given raejw / " 

She raised her eyes to his despairingly. 

"They won't allow it," she moaned. "Oh, 
they'd never ill low it ! " 

He smiled ; there was a triumphant ring 
in his voice, 

"They?" he asked. "They?" 

"The — the boys — the gang," she murmured. 
" Oh, they wouldn't hear of it. To them 
you're only a new comer— an outsider." 

He nodded his head 

" Yes," he agreed, confidently. " So we'll 
stay outside— together 1" 

Her eyes questioned his, doubtfully. 

"Tonight, sweetheart," he said. "This 
very night. There's a boat at the landing, 
By morning we can be fifty miles on our 


way to Chilcote — by 
next evening we can 
be there. Til put you 
in charge of the mis- 
sionary's wife. As 
soon as they'll hand 
me out a licence well 
be married," 

She shook her head; 
she still hesitated. 

"Oh, I'm afraid, 
Jack," she whispered* 
"I'm afraid!" 

His arms tightened 
about her. 

"Afraid? Afraid— of 
me?" he questioned. 
Her eyes met his 
again— steadfastly this 
time, A tiny smile 
broke out about her 

"No, dear," she 
whispered " Afraid 
— of losing you." 

Four hours later the 
faint sound of grind- 
ing pebbles was 
smothered by the 
tempest as a canoe 
swung off the landing 
and out into the river. 
The wind still howled 
through the forest 
The rain drove in heavy drops upon the 
branches and dripped throvigh to the 
pine needles. The roar of the shallows, 
now twice their usual depth, showed thai 
the floods were storming their way from 
the hills. In midstream it came home 
to Graham with sudden, sharp realization that 
the current would tax, and perhaps overpower, 
the limits of his strength. He did not attempt 
to increase the speed — he only guided. Seated 
in the bow, Baby peered anxiously into the 
gloom, givitig quick warnings or directions. 
For ten minutes they raced through the 
rapids, escaping disaster by a hair's breadth at 
every furlong. And the river rose in power. 
Suddenly the gloom ahead grew more 
opaque— the voice of the torrent rose even 
above the howl of the wind — foam streaks 
showed white on either hand —Baby's cry 
was shrill in terror. 
Too late ! 

There was a grinding crash, and the frail 

birch bark crumpled as an envelope crumples 

between tightening fingers. The next instant 

John Graham was in the grip of the eddies, 

Original from 




one arm about Baby's waist, one around a 
great boulder which heaved and rocked 
under the strain. His feet probed vainly 
for purchase. 

He took a deep breath. Then, with a 

stupendous effort, he dragged himself and 

his burden behind the stone. The stream 

was not a danger now, but a help. It thrust 

them against the rock instead of straining 

them from it Little by little, inch by inch, 

they climbed, stepped from boulder to 

boulder, and so found solid earth. In their 

exhaustion they sank down panting. 

Baby was the first to break silence. 

"Which side are we?" she gasped, 
anxiously. " Which ? * 

Graham tottered to his feet and looked 
round. The rapids boiled past upon his left 
side. He turned, and in turning found the 
smooth black depth of the main stream 
whirling past on the right hand also. He 
gazed bewilderedly in front of him. Here, 
twenty yards away, the two channels joined 
to spin between the rocks ! He gave an 
exclamation of despair. 

" We're trapped ! " he cried. " We're on 
an island ! We can't get away — we can't get 
away ! " 

When the dawn broke upon the two who 
clung to their frail refuge in mid-stream it 
was to bring them no hope, but rather to 
confirm their despair. The flood was still 
rising — eating its way foot by foot into the 
heart of their resting-place as they watched. 
The soft earth crumbled — stones were forced 
from their seating and sucked into the current 
— more than half the island had already 
disappeared. And on each side of them 
roared the torrent, sixty feet wide. 

Minute by minute Death was coming 
nearer and yet nearer. There was nothing 
left to do but watch his approach in the 
apathy with which Nature heralds his coming. 
Silently, almost patiently, the girl and the 
man sat and waited, hand clasped in hand. 

Suddenly some unexplained instinct drew 
Baby's eyes from the torrent and lifted them 
towards the bank behind her. She started — 
an exclamation burst from her. Graham 
wheeled round. 

With one hand leaning upon the great 
pine beside him, haggard with weariness, red- 
eyed with want of sleep, Sam Curtis stood 
upon the 'mnk and stared down upon them. 
His fingers clasped and unclasped upon his 
wooduian's axe — his gaze seemed to burn 
itself into their very souls. Then suddenly 
he flung out his hand towards them and 
gesticulated fiercely. His lips moved, but 


the roar of the hurricane tore the words away 

He pointed up into the branches of the 
pine. His eyes flashed ominously as he 
raised his axe and dashed it against the 

And so John Graham — thought he under- 
stood. He gave a cry— he gathered his love 
to him— he turned her face from his rival 
and shielded it with his own. 

" It would have been within an hour, any- 
way," he said, quietly. "He is only doing 
quickly what the flood was doing with cruel 
slowness. He won't delay his revenge. He 
wants our destruction to come from his own 
hand— his very own ! " 

She struggled against his embrace. 

11 No ! " she protested, vehemently. " No ! 
Why— why, it's Sam / " 

He nodded. 

" Yes," he said, " and he's going to make 
sure. He won't wait for the river. He's 
felling the tree — upon us ! " 

She gave a queer, choking little laugh, half 
in terror, half in exasperation, as it seemed. 

" He isn't ! He isn't ! " she declared. 
11 Look ! Look ! " 

Graham looked round again. The lum- 
berman's axe was swinging to and fro in 
great, sweeping blows which bit fiercely into 
the wood. The tree swayed in the blast, 
bending more and more as they watched. 
Then they saw Sam halt and glance alertly 
at the sky. He altered his position slightly 
and began to strike again from a new point 

Baby sighed with appreciation. 

" He's getting the wind behind the cut," 
she breathed, tensely. " Look ! Look again ! " 

She had no need to explain further. A 
gust shrieked through the forest, smote the 
wounded tree, and with a ripping, tearing 
sound smashed it riverwards from the root. 
The great mass of its upper branches fell out, 
half beside, half upon the island, bridging the 
stream completely with its bulk. And like 
some Berserk hero at the storming of a breach 
Sam came smiting his way along the trunk, 
lopping the great limbs till he had opened a 
path to their very feet. 

And then — the very storm seemed to hush 
its uproar in their ears— a great silence fell 
between the three. The two waited expec- 
tant, the young man's arm still defiantly about 
the girl's waist. 

Sam's eyes still glowed ; his fingers still 
knitted and unknitted themselves upon the 
helve of the great axe. But it was with 
nothing but gentleness in its tones that his 
voice came at Ja^frorn 




*>AM UAMli SillTIMi M(H WAV AIu.m; Ink TiU.'NK 

* 4 Baby," he said, tenderly. " Baby, my The a\e helve was gripped as if the strong 

lass, come home I " fingers would crush it, The great chest 

She gave a little gasp. Her grip tightened heaved* Then Sam smiled — a grave, un* 

upon her lover's arm. faltering smile. 

" I'll come, n she whispered " 1*11 come — "As his wife," he said, quietly. "His 

but only as — his wife I" wife- but still— our Baby ! " 

by Google 

Original from 

The Comic Side of Crime. 


Written and Illustrated by HARRY FURNISS. 

T appears it is no use arguing 
with female prisoners. Griffiths, 
Guillot, and others, English 
and foreign experts in prison 
life, assert that the official has 
no moral weight, but simply 
wastes time in preaching to them. He is 
simply looked upon as one performing a 
duty for which he is paid. Visitors un- 
official may have some influence for good, 
but the Major maintained that inexperienced 
visitors are so easily misled ; " they may be 
subjected to so much imposture by designing 
hypocrites who can assume any mood, and 
their aid is more often mischievous than 
beneficial." Yet in his " Secrets of the 
Prison House " he lets out one secret which 
rather shows that an experienced visitor can 
outwit the officials and thus be more mis- 
chievous than any well-meaning amateur. 

This story is a true comedy in prison life. 
A parallel episode we find in the most 
dramatic book Dickens wrote — "A Tale 
of Two Cities," but in that story men are 
the chief figures. Here the characters are 

One day a lady of title, well known for her 
philanthropy and kindness to all her re- 
tainers, discovered that the daughter of her 
coachman had stolen a horse out of her 
stable and had been imprisoned. The culprit 
vras arrested when endeavouring to sell the 
horse, a valuable one, for five pounds. The 
horse-dealer, being suspicious, retained the 
horse and sent for the police. The dealer 
was a good judge of a horse, and knew that 
such a fine spirited animal, which had been 
galloped ten miles or over, was worth more 
than was demanded by the lad who rode it. 
However, he was not much of a judge of 
human flesh, for he did not detect that the 
groom was a young girl. It was only when 
she was in jail and took her hat off,« thus 
letting her long hair down, and she cried, 
that she gave herself away. 

This female Dick Turpin caused quite a 

stir in the women's wing of Harchester Jail. 

The prisoners admired the new-comer's pluck, 

and a gipsy girl in addition admired her 

crime, and, eventually hobnobbing with her, 
became her pal and her evil genius. They 
arranged future escapades, which they would 
jointly carry out when they were free. 
Maimie Popple, the gipsy girl, however, was 
released from jail several months before 
Josephine, the horse-stealer. The latter was 
not even tried yet, and the poor Josephine, 
full of spirit, enterprise, and devilment, had 
to roll herself up in the corner of her cell 
and curse her fate in solitude. She had 
asked Maimie to call at] Crewkerne Hall 
to see the dear, philanthropic Lady Sarah 
Furnival, and to intercede for her. Not 
many days later Lady Sarah drove up to the 
jail. She sent in her card to the governor 
with an urgent request to see Josephine, her 
coachman's daughter. 

The visit of the popular Lady Sarah 
Furnival caused great excitement among the 
officials of the prison, and the governor him- 
self, hat in hand, ushered the " aristocratic 
lady in. She was richly dressed in a long 
sealskin, smart bonnet, and the newest gloves. 
Her veil was down. 

" I wish to see Josephine alone. Against 
the rules ? But in my case you will make an 
exception? I want to speak to her, to 
reason with her, to console her as best I can, 
and for that I must be alone with her." 

Her appeal was irresistible. The governor 
bowed her out of his room to the corridor, 
where she was met by obsequious turnkeys 
and warders. The matron and assistant 
warder followed her ladyship into the cell. 
It was fortunate that they did so, for no 
sooner had Josephine realized who her visitor 
was than she had violent convulsions, kicking 
all over the floor. The matron, at the earnest 
request of the distressed Lady Bountiful, 
rushed off for assistance, and came back with 
the doctor, just as the aristocrat, anxious to 
escape from such a heartrending scene and 
the unpleasant surroundings of the prison, 
walked out, everyone flying to pay her all the 
attention they could till she was safely in her 
carriage and driven off. 

The governor, matron, and official? 
generally, deluding the Major — though 





he does not relate the story as happening 
to himself — must have looked very foolish 
when they discovered that the prisoner 
recovering from convulsions in her cell was 
none other than the gipsy, Maimie Fop pie, 
and the " lady Jt they had just bowed out 
was Josephine ! They had exchanged 
clothes — the clothes were Lady Sarah 
Fumival's, for Maimie had stolen them 
the night before from Crewkeme Hall, thus 
freeing Josephine, who might have had 
years in prison* Knowing that she herself 
for this trick would only get six months at 
the most, and then be free to join Josephine, 
she had carried the affair off with a light 

The " convulsions " was an excuse to get 
a few minutes alone, so that the girls could 
change clothes ; and the Major says that the 
gipsy girl, when personating her ladyship, 
spoke with rather a mincing, affected voice, 
which the governor attributed to emotion. 
No wonder these governors object to philan- 
thropic visitors ! 

Major Arthur Griffiths was no doubt as 
shrewd and clever as he was entertaining and 
accomplished, but he gives himself away 
amusingly in his first introduction to prison 
life. In 1869, when brigade-major at Gib- 



raltar, he was sud- 
denly selected to 
take over the 
management of the 
convict establish- 
ment which at that 
time existed on the 
Rock, He admits 
that he was quite 
green at the work 
and that he had 
to deal with some 
hundreds of the 
very worst charac- 
ters sent from 
England, and in 
his usual graphic 
style gives an ac- 
count of the first 
confession made 
to him by a 

"If emotion, 
heart - rending, 
deep - seated, was 
ever depicted on 
a human counte- 
nance, it was there 
before me, plainly, 
forcibly written 
upon this agonized, unhappy face. The 
man f s eyes were full, and the great tear-drops 
welled over, rolling down his cheeks. His 
hands twitched convulsively, and his body 
heaved and swayed with the piteous sobs 
that shook his whole powerful frame." The 
poor wretch made a complete confession to 
being the murderer, long wanted for a 
ghastly crime in the counting-house of a Cky 
firm, (l The murderers were never dis- 
covered/' he said to the Major, " They have 
got clear away with their booty, and have 
since eluded detection until to-day." 

11 What do you mean ? " asked the 
astonished Major. " Do you know them ? ,? 
" I do, sir, only too well Alas, alas ! it 
was I with my mate who did the foul deed/' 

He then goes on to relate how this un- 
happy man broke down under his confession 
and gave away another prisoner as his fellow- 
culprit Griffiths sent for the accomplice, 
and a little, round-faced, chubby man, with a 
jaunty, impudent air, was marched in. 

(i Do you know this man ?" said Griffiths, 
pointing to the quivering wretch in the 

Directly their eyes met the new-comer's 
colour changed j his- smug self-sufficiency 
faded out of him, and he collapsed. He 




denied he had ever seen the man before. 
The man who had confessed, however, up- 
braided him for his cowardice, and a violent 
scene occurred, which left no doubt in the 
mind of the governor of the prison that they 
were jointly guilty* There was nothing to do 

Powerscourt, near Dublin— one would have 
expected the famous " Lover's Leap " of 
that place sufficient melodramatic fare for 
him to feed upon, but he loved a stronger 
meat He, like Ko-Ko in M The Mikado/' 
was anxious to discover if in everyday 


but to send the particulars to England, and in 
the usual course of things, which in those 
days moved very slowly, these men would be 
brought up at the Central Criminal Court 
and duly tried. In the meantime, they 
were placed in a portion of the prison for 
prisoners awaiting trial, which meant that they 
received the best of fare and had no work 
to do. They amused themselves by writing 
a full confession, giving all the ghastly par- 
ticulars of their dreadful deed But, as it 
turned out, the men were in prison at the 
time of the murder for some trivial offence, 
and the whole of this little comedy in the 
Gibraltar prison was a clever dodge to obtain 
some respite from prison routine. 

A well-known figure in Bohemian society 
in London in the 'seventies and 'eighties was 
the Hon. Lewis Wing field, soldier, actor, 
artist, author, traveller, and perhaps the most 
morbid- minded man I ever knew. How such 
a pleasant companion could have emulated 
the Fat Boy in u Pickwick " by taking delight 
in making your flesh creep was to me a 
mystery. Reared in a veritable fairyland- 

life the punishment would fit the crime. 
In fact, Wingfield's hobby was the study of 
punishment — from the tortures in foreign 
lands to hangings at Newgate. His recep- 
tion-room, on the ground-floor of his house 
in Montagu Place, was a perfect and costly 
museum of Japanese art ; his collection of 
photographs of trials by torture was supposed 
to give his guests an appetite while waiting 
for dinner. And so as to pass the time until 
all his guests had arrived he would kindly 
allow you to handle the sword of the Great 
Executioner of Japan. 

Behold the Lord High Executioner ! 

A personage of noble rank and title, 

A dignified and potent officer, 

Whose functions are particularly vital* 
Defer, defer, 

To the noble Lord High Executioner 3 
and, assuming the character of the "noble 
Lord High Executioner,' 1 he himself would 
vividly describe to you the mode in which 
capital punishment was administered, when, 
to your astonishment, the Japanese panels 
would suddenly and mysteriously fly open, 
and reveal to you — no, not the chamber of 

university of Michigan 

4 6 


horrors in Japan, but a charming London 
dining-room. Gladly you accepted the change 
of scene, and honestly you admired the 
Japanese salt-cellars, and willingly began to 
enjoy the capital dinner and the clever 
company, readily forgetting all about heads 
horribly cut off and limbs cruelly crushed 
by torture, when your eye was attracted by 
a curious object in the centre of the dining- 
table, winding in and out among choice 
flowers— a long rope, not a common one, but 
seemingly of semi-silk, and here and there 
bound round by pieces of tape, on each of 
which was written a name, date, and other 
figures. Probably, you think 3 the rope is a 
relic of some foundered yacht, the names in- 
scribed are those of your host's dear departed 
friends, the date of the disaster, and the 
ages . of the victims. It is a pretty idea, 
and you sympathetically asked Wing fie Id for 

11 Oh, ah, that's most interesting. It's the 
rope Marwood used for two years. The 
names, dates, and length of drop connected 
with each hanging are written on the pieces 
of tape," 

It was surprising how many guests remem- 
bered they had friends to meet at the Opera. 

One day he sat at lunch with only one 
guest The rope was not on the table ; the 
conversation did not turn on criminals or 
hanging — at least, not when the butler 


by Google 

was in the room, for the guest was none 
other than Marwood, the public hangman. 
Naturally, Wingfietd was most anxious that 
his domestics should not discover this fact, 
fearing that they would have refused to serve 
the hangman, and probably given notice on 
the spot His butler was an old and valued 
servant, and when he was in the room Wing- 
field was careful to refer only to general topics, 
and avoid the one which he and his guest had 
met to discuss. To Wingfield's horror the 
hangman kept looking at his watch, and once 
or twice, when the butler was in the room, 
he would say : — 

" Ah j they're giving it to them now. Yes, 
yes ; it's about time now it was over," 

Wingfield was on pins and needles lest his 
guest should, in his excitement, disclose the 
names of the poor victims. As soon as they 
were alone, he said : — 

41 Who are they ? I didn't know there was 
any execution on to- day," 

11 Well, I should think not — or I wouldn't 
be here," 

" But they're criminals of some kind— 
flogging, eh ? " 

" Flogging ! Criminals I Bless you, no, 
sir. I was looking at my watch 'ere to time 
the presentation of prizes at my girls 3 school. 
To-day one takes a fust prize and the other 
a second ! " 

In recalling some interesting escapes which 
prisoners have achieved, 
which I may appropri- 
ately entitle "Close 
Shaves," I am reminded 
by the phrase of the 
vanity of convicts ; for, 
strange as it may appear 
to those in the outer 
world, there is much 
comedy . in the extreme 
vanity of those hidden in 
their prison cells. Many 
a convict feels more 
sorely the fact that he 
is forced to go unshaven 
than that the marks de- 
noting his crime are sewn 
upon his clothes. Extra- 
ordinary is his ingenuity 
in procuring some sharp 
piece of metal, glass, or 
anything that will shave 
him ; it is one of the 
puzzles that seem to 
baffle prison officials. A 
Jj»U man will spend hours and 

0^0 i gin a I frtowrs in his cell scraping 




at his chin, and when his door is opened in the 
morning will stand up as clean as if he were 
leaving a barber's shop. Search him, examine 
his cell as minutely as they may, yet they will 
fail to find the instrument with which he has 
accomplished his object, Swell mobsmen, 
and others of the dandy class, use their soup 
for hair-grease, and there are other little fads 
of the confirmed convict which show that 
vanity is one of their minor 

But this is a digression. 
The "close shaves" I am 
about to call to mind are 
those connected with pri- 
soners' escapes. 

Luck has a great deal to 
do with these ; ingenuity of 
counsel has sometimes the 
desired effect, and the 
blundering of a judge or 
the stupidity of a jury may 
let a scoundrel oft' Let me 
take a case of luck, 

A young man I knew 
once had a narrow escape 
of this kind- He had 
studied dentistry, and at 
last was able to set up for 
himself, buying a small 
business and the name of 
a dentist in the vicinity of 
Long Acre ; and I then 
thought he was on the high 
road to success. I met hinn 
years afterwards in a pub- 
lishers office ! 

4 * Why did you give up 
dentistry ? " I asked, and 
in reply he told me this 
remarkable story. 

u Through one of those extraordinary 
unforeseen tides in the affairs of man that 
swamp and drown him* The business I had 
bought was an old one, with some curious 
old customers — patients, I should say— on 
the books* One, and one only, I saw. The 
remainder were either dead or on the books 
of others. This solitary item of purchase 
was too old to require my services, but she 
called occasionally out of mere habit, I 
depended altogether upon new clients, and 
*as just beginning to succeed in making a 
pajing business when this lady died- I had 
really forgotten all about her, when one day, 
to my surprise, two men pushed past my 
attendant and entered my consulting-room. 
They were aggressively impertinent ; and, 
after informing me that one of them was a 

detective and the other a solicitor's clerk, 
they told me I had better make a clean 
breast of it, and not give them the trouble of 
searching the place for the money I had 
wheedled out of my client. The old lady, 
on her deathbed, had said that I had all her 
money in my possession, and they came with 
full power to demand it, 

"My first impulse was to kick them 
downstairs, but I was too 
astonished to do more 
than seize my day - book 
and open it at the place 
in which I had entered the 
last visit of the old lady. 

" ■ I do not know if this 
is some practical joke on 
your part, gentlemen, but 
I may tell you that I never 
looked upon the old lady's 
visits seriously. I never 
saw her teeth or her money 
— in fact, I do not know 
if she had either. The 
entry of her last visit is 
here : — 

" ' ** The old cat called 
again, and remained an 
hour. I think I'll write 
and tell her 'Time is 
money/ n * 

** * Money sometimes 
means M Time, 3 ' ' said the 
sharp detective to the 
sharp solicitor's clerk, with 
a wink. 

u * And this man's epi- 
grammatic entry,' said the 
clerk— ' *' Time is money," 
a close shave. ■* « 'phe old cat remained an 

hour " — is made exactly 
upon the day on which the 4I old cat " drew all 
her money out of the bank and brought it 
here. The " old cat's Jl dying words were : 
£t My dentist has all my money— all of it, every 
shilling ; no teeth — but all my money."' 

" l Do you seriously imply, 1 I asked, 'that 
I have robbed the old lady of all her 
money ? ' 

41 'She said so, clearly enough, on her death- 
bed: " No teeth, but all my money.'" 

" This was no joke ; I felt the handcuffs 
would soon be upon my wrists- I was dazed, 
dumbfounded ! What could I do ? VVhat 
did it all mean ? The last thought I must 
have expressed audibly, for the detective 
said : — 

41 * It means you have to come with me. 
But, first, perhaps you have no objection — 





just to substantiate your innocence, you 
know — to hand over your keys. There may 
be some cat's-meat in the larder/ he said, as 
he opened my safe — to find nothing in it, 
except some old books and a little dentists' 
gold for filling teeth. 

41 The next day I was in Holloway ; a 
month after I was in the Old Bailey ; a few 
days later I was in Wormwood Scrubs, 

" Within a week I was set free, uncondi- 
tionally — without a stain upon my character 
— but a ruined man* 

"When I was sentenced to three years' 
hard labour for robbing the old lady, the 
evidence against me was considered con- 

" 1 had to admit that the entry in my 
diary was in my writing, and it was proved 
that it was written five minutes after the 
lady's visit to the bank, from which she had 
withdrawn her entire capital ; that she had 
not a penny to pay her bus fare from my 
house, and that she emphatically declared 
I had all her money. 

"It all seemed to me a dream. I do 
recollect saying that the lady left her old 
case of teeth, but I had not opened it. I 
had thrown it into a drawer, with a lot of 

other useless relics of old cases, and had for- 
gotten all about it 

" This old case, with a label saying it con- 
tained her teeth, was offered for sale, with the 
remainder of the rubbish of my establishment, 
to pay the expenses of my defence. 

" The case was opened by the man who 
was about to offer five shillings for the con- 
tents of the drawer, and he found in it ten 
one - thousand - pound notes, corresponding 
with the numbers the bank had entered as 
those given to the old cat ! 

u We were all in the right. It was true the 
old lady had given me all her money and no 
teeth- She felt that in leaving her old case 
with me she would ensure my unsuspectingly 
taking care of her supposed old teeth. And 
in this way her money would be safer from 
her grasping relatives than if left in the bank, 

" The bank was right, the solicitor was 
right, the detective was right. 

" I was rights too ; but I was ruined and 
they were not" 

It was but another instance to illustrate the 
fact that men have narrow shaves. It was 
my young friend's name that was embossed 
on the case, but it was the old lady's Fortune- 
not her teeth — that waa inside it. 

by Google 

Original from 


Author of " btmmbks Amongst the A/p" il The Great Andes of the Equator? 4tc. 

{With Photographs by ihe Author.) 

JHERE are four principal ways 
in which anyone may come to 
grief in mountainous regions. 
One is from falling avalanches; 
another from bad weather; a 
third from falling stones ; and 
a fourth from slipping. The casualties or 
deaths which occur through the last cause 
greatly outnumber those which happen from 
the other three put together. 

making steps, when all at once the snow 
above them gave way and the entire party 
was carried down a thousand feet or more 
over the slopes up which they had toiled. 
Snow again broke away above, and more or 
less covered up the whole party. Some of 
them struggled out, but three of the leading 
guides were hurried into a crevasse and buried 
under an immense mass of snow, Ten years 
afterwards, when conducting another tourist 

The siHM»^tr?ck oci ihc right is the route taken in a] I the early ascents of MoiU Blanc The Hamel accident occurred 
iome where about the sput marked x. The parly of eleven persons perished in 1390 at the spot marked XX. 

I, There are avalanches of different kinds, 
but when the term ''avalanche" is used it is 
generally supposed to apply to falls of great 
bodies of snow or ice. One of the first 
occasions of this kind which attracted atten- 
tion took place in 1820, upon Mont Blanc, 
and it is commonly called the Ham el 
accident. Dr, Hamel, a Russian, set out 
on August 18th to go up Mont Blanc, 
accompanied by two Englishmen and eight 
guides. They had ascended to a height of 
more than fourteen thousand feet, with 
five guides in front, who were cutting or 

Vol. jutxviL— 7, 

up Mont Blanc by the same route, one of the 
surviving guides pointed to the crevasse and 
said to his employer, "They are there." 

u It was a melancholy reflection/' remarked 
the tourist, "and all of the guides seemed to 
feel deeply the loss of their ill fated comrades, 
who will in all probability remain embedded 
there till the day of judgment." He was 
wrong. At that time (1830) the bodies were 
no doubt a considerable distance from the 
spot where the accident occurred, for the dis- 
membered remains of the three unfortunates 
commenced to reappear at the lower end of 



Mi -i! BUtttC and the Valley of Cbamonu Train C'Lilui de la Floriaz — x„ the place where tlie guides of £v± Humcl party were 
lost ; x x, i lie place where l heir remain* were recovered forty -one years u Tier watd*. 

the Glacier des Bossons in [861, more than 
four miles away, in a direct line, from the 
place where they perished, and must have 
travelled down on an average at the rate of 
five hundred feet per annum, A large part 
oF the back of a man was first seen protruding 
through the ice. After that, fragments of 
skulls, a lower arm with its hand, bits of knap- 
sacks, a felt hat, lantern, shreds of clothing, 
and a cooked leg of mutton were amongst 
the objects which came to light ; and in the 
following year a multitude of other articles 
which were collected placed it beyond all 
doubt that they were indeed relics of the 
long-lost victims of the affaire Hamel, These 
finds attracted much attention, as they, 
afforded a practical demonstration of the 
motion of glaciers. 

In 1 866, forty-six years after the Hamel 
accident, there was a closely similar occur- 
rence upon nearly the same spot. Captain 
Ark wright started from Chamonix on the 13th 
or October to make an ascent of Mont Blanc 
by the route that was taken by Dr. Hamel, 
which is called the a mien passage ; or the old 
way. It was the route which was followed upon 
all the earliest ascents of Mont Blanc, but 
it is now given up. The captain was accom- 
panied by a guide, two porters, and two 
Chamoniard volunteers. They had ascended 

only a little way up the ancitn passage when 
an avalanche fell. The volunteers saw it 
corning and managed to get out of the way, 
but Captain Ark wright and the three others 
were overwhelmed by it, and no trace of 
them could be discerned by the survivors. 
Some time afterwards the bodies of the 
guide and porters were recovered, though 
Captain Ark wright remained embedded, and 
did not come to light again until thirty- one 
years had elapsed. On October 26th, 18971 
whilst prowling about the lower part ol the 
Glacier des Bossons, I found upon the 
surface of the ice the upper part of a 
pair of trousers, and in one of the pockets 
there were two white [xieket- hand kerchiefs, 
one marked with his name in full and the 
other with his initials. There was besides 
a small woollen comforter, which he had 
apparently bought for the ascent. These 
articles were quite uninjured and looked like 
new, after having been embedded in ice for 
thirty-one years. Captain Ark wright peri she J 
somewhat lower down than the members of 
the Hamel party, and this partly accounts 
for his remains having been found after the 
lapse of thirty-one years, while the others took 
ten years longer to make their reappearance. 
Avalanches of. snow arise from different 
reasons or eaShikfroifl the case of the Hamel 




accident, it is clear that the snow was started 
from disturbance of its base, The party 
interfered with the base, and the su perin- 
eum bent snow came down, and that was 
the reason why Bennen, "a guide, lost his 
life in 1S64, It is not certain how the 
avalanche was started which caused the death 
of Captain Arkwright, though it seems prob- 
able that it occurred through snow being 
piled up naturally until it had passed the 
11 angle of stability." This was what occurred 
upon the next example which is given of the 
power of snow-avalanches— namely, the des- 
truction of the Trift Hotel, This "hotel was 
situated in a small valley in the neigh bour- 
was put up princi^ 
pally as a conveni- 
ence for persons 
passing by the Trift 
Pass from Zermatt 
to ZinaL It was 
closed during the 
winter, and its pro 
prietor came up in 
spring to make pre- 
parations for the 
summer season. 
When he came up 
in the spring of 1 899 
he found that his 
hotel had been 
obliterated since he 
left it in the pre- 
ceding year. Walls, 
floors, and all the 
contents were 
smashed, crushed, 
or carried away, and 
he said that the con- 
tents, the pots and 
pans, the chairs and 
tables, and all the 

all of the cows. The Swiss mourned the loss 
of the cows more than they did the massacre 
of the herdsmen ! The thing which struck 
me more particularly was the levelling of 
the trees upon the outskirts — a thick 
wood, almost amounting to a forest— which 
was not touched by the ice, but was blown 
down by the force of the wind which was 
created. On this occasion the blocks of ice 
came down with such tremendous force and 
velocity that they danced, hopped, and 
plunged for several miles, and actually went 
over into the neighbouring valley, A multi- 
tude of other examples of this nature might 
be quoted, but I must pass on to- 1 - 

Thc effects of an avalandie, When J, he proprietor of I lie Trifi Huiel Carrie up in ihe spring of 
1B9Q lo reopen for the summer season he found the hotel thu* ouliicr:ue<L 

were so 
completely smashed up that it was not worth 

the trouble to preserve any of them, 

In regard to ice -avalanches very little 
needs to be said. They occur, as a rule, 
from the lower ends or portions of glaciers 
breaking away. They come down with 
tremendous force, create a great row, and 
may do infinite mischief. The last great 
occasion was the avalanche on the Gem mi, 
when a considerable part of the glacier upon 
the western side of the mountain called 
Altels broke away, and, after falling for 
thousands of feet, smashing itself into myriads 
of blocks, plunged down upon the Alp 
beneath, killing all the herdsmen and nearly 

2* Accidents arising from bad weather. 
Upon this subject a volume might be written. 
Everyone knows that at quite low levels 
weather may change suddenly, and be very 
inconvenient. At considerable elevations, 
and more particularly at great elevations, the 
changes in weather and in temperature are 
very abrupt and rough. They have no 
respect for persons, and, as in the case which 
I am about to mention, it is just as well to be 
prepared for whatever may happen. It is t no 
doubt, very joyous to go about half clad, and 
to attempt to emulate the feats of the 
chamois, but it is not prudent, and many a 
man has been caught by, and has perished 




Some of the effects of the avalanche on the Gem mi. Thew trees were not touched by the avalanche, but were blown dtfu-n 

hy the wind created hy iis passage. 

from, bad weather who would have been alive 
now if he had paid attention to that simple 
matter. A great number of instances can 
he quoted of people who have perished 
in the mountains through being badly clad 
or provided for insufficiently ; but I 
prefer to mention only two or three as 
examples, and take for the first the case 
which happened in 1870, when an entire 
caravan of eleven persons perished near the 
summit of Mont Blanc:. It is the worst thing 
of its kind that has happened. No one was 
left to tell the tale, and it is only from frag- 
mentary notes in the pockets of those who 
were lost, and from observations made by 
people who were watching the party, more 
than ten thousand feet below, that one is 
able to construct a story. 

In the late summer of 1870 a scratch 
party set out from Chamonix to ascend Mont 
Blanc* The amateurs were Mr. Randall, of 
Boston, U.S.A., Mr. Mc Bean (American), and 
the Rev. G. McCorkindale, of Gourock> on 
the Clyde. They took with them as guides 
or assistants no fewer than eight persons 
from Chamonix, and this was a quite 
sufficient number. They set out in the 
morning, and, as is customary, they passed 
the night at the inn called Grands Mulcts, 

which is about ten thousand feet above the 
sea. Next day they continued the journey, 
according to the established routine. After 
that they were absolutely blotted out No 
one returned to tell the tale. This is one 
of the stories which are most regrettable 
and deplorable, because it happened without 
fault on the part of anyone. It was a case 
of force majeure, Sir Leslie Stephen, hoff 
ever, said, in regard to it — and he was a fit 
judge 1 "With a really experienced guide I 
cannot but believe that the party who were 
lost must have been able to find their way. 
They might have suffered frost bites, or even 
lost the lives of some of the weaker members 
of the party ; but that eleven men should be 
so bewildered as actually to be incapable ot 
discovering a route implies a singular want 
of that instinct for which a good guide is 
generally remarkable, and which all tolerable 
guides ought to possess. 1 ' These remarks are 
good and true, and I say 4i Hear, hear.* 
Now for the story* 

The party set out from Chamonix on 
September 5th, with three guides and five 
porters and, as is usual, passed the night at 
the inn upon the rocks which are called the 
Grands Mulets. On the next dav a number 

^uflm'tmiiWlSSft their progress 



through telescopes. They were seen to 
arrive on the summit and to begin the 
descent. By that time the weather had 
changed. I am told that the wind was 
something frightful. Even twelve thousand 
feet below it was seen whirling the snow 
about, so that the members of the party 
were obliged to throw themselves down to 
avoid being carried away by it Then the 
summit became clouded, and was not seen 
again for eight days. 

No one came back, and upon the 7th of 
September fourteen men from Chamonix 
started out to try to learn something. Bad 
weather came on again, and it was not until 
the 1 7th that the fate of the party was ascer- 
tained. When the rescue party got up they 
found Mr. McCorkindale and two of the 
porters about seven hundred and fifty feet 
below the top, with their heads right way up, 
but with their clothes somewhat torn, as if 
they had slipped and fallen. About three 
hundred feet higher up they came upon Mr. 
McBean and another porter sitting down, the 
former with his head leaning on one hand 
and the elbow on a knapsack ; ropes coiled 
up, batons, axes, and knapsacks round about 
them still containing a little food. Upon 
Mr. McBean a note-book was found con- 
taining several entries in respect to the 
occasion. This is one of them : — 

" Mv dear Hessie, — We have been on 
Mont Blanc for two days in a terrible snow 
storm. We have lost our way, and are in a 
hole scooped out of the snow at a height of 
fifteen thousand feet. I have no hope of 
descending. Perhaps this book may be 
found and forwarded . . . . We -have no 
food ; my feet are already frozen, and I am 
exhausted. I have only strength to write a 
few words. I die in the faith of Jesus Christ, 
with affectionate thoughts of my family ; 
my remembrance to all"; and lower down, 
in nearly illegible writing, there was this : 
" Morning. Intense cold, much snow, which 
falls uninterruptedly; guides restless." All of 
the five corpses were hard frozen. They 
were put into sacks and dragged down to 
Chamonix. It took three days to transport 
them. The bodies of the six others have 
not yet been recovered, but they will probably 
come to light in the course of a few years. 

This was the worst disaster that has 
happened on Mont Blanc, and, so far as I 
know, in any part of the world. It is often 
said that it is easy to be wise after the event 
What could have been done to save this party ? 
The order ought to have been given, " Down, 
down, down," for no shelter can be obtained 

on the summit of Mont Blanc or anywhere 
near it. Some lives might have been sacrificed, 
but the greater part would have been saved. 

Every year lives are lost in the Alps 
through bad weather. Sometimes the cases 
which occur do not deserve commiseration, 
though others do ; and amongst the 
latter may be mentioned that of the death 
of Jean Antoine Carrel. He was a man 
of bulldog tenacity, and a great lover of the 
mountains. On the 21st of August, 1890, he 
set out with Signor Sinigaglia, of Turin, to 
make an ascent of his pet mountain, the 
Matterhorn. Bad weather came on, and the 
ascent was not made. They remained in a 
hut which is about half-way up the mountain 
for two days, and then decided to retreat. 
He assisted his employer to the utmost, but 
progress was slow, as the weather was very 
bad, and caution had to be exercised. They 
were just off the mountain about eleven p.m., 
and had arrived at the grass slopes, over 
which anyone can come down in the night, 
when it was noticed that Carrel fell to the 
ground several times. He was asked what 
was the matter, and replied, "'it is nothing." 
But at last he fell again, and could not rise. 
"Come up and fetch me," they heard a 
faint voice say ; " I have no strength left." 
"With extreme difficulty," said Signor 
Sinigaglia, " we carried him up to a safe place, 
and asked him what was the matter. His 
only answer was, * I know no longer where I 
am.' We did all that we could for him, but 
this did not last long— he could only answer 
with moans. We tried to lift him, but it was 
impossible — he was getting stiff. We stooped 
down and asked in his ear If he wished to 
commend his soul to God. With a last 
effort he answered * Yes/ and then fell on his 
back, dead, on the snow." With good taste 
and feeling Signor Sinigaglia has placed a 
memorial on the spot where this brave man 
died, and it is known as " Carrel's Cross." 

These are a few of the more striking 
occurrences which have happened in the 
Alps through bad weather. Many, very 
many more might be cited, but let us pass 
on to — 

3. Falling stones. To a casual mountain 
visitor it may seem ridiculous to speak about 
falling stones. I have had lifelong experience 
amongst mountains, and know that they are 
a real danger, and that one cannot exercise 
too many precautions against them. Partly 
due to the trouble that I have taken, I have 
never been injured seriously by falling stones, 
although upon a number of occasions there 
have bcenrvieirjy,,. close shawes* ki The first time 




I was hit was on the very first ascent I made 
in the Alps, namely, of Mont Pelvoux, in 
Dauphind. Along with a friend, we were 
encamping on an open slope of the mountain, 
a thing that never should be done if cover 
can be obtained, and heard and saw stones 
coming down the part above us. One, 
about as big as my fist, which was descend- 
ing in hops several hundred feet long, 
alighted just on the top of my head, and 
took another leap. My companion, who was 
close by, did not rush up, throw his arms 
around my neck, and say, " I hope you are 
not hurt, old fellow," but retired a few steps, 
put his arms akimbo, and looked at me 
curiously, saying, " Well, your head must be 
deuced hard, Whymper." We treated the 
affair as a joke, but it would not have been a 
laughing matter if it had struck three inches 
lower. The next illustration of falling stones 
is a much more serious matter. 

There is a pass leading from the Zermatt 
Valley to the neighbouring Val d'Anniviers, 
called the Trift. It is frequently crossed in 
the summer, but it has been known for fully 
half a century that stones and large blocks of 
rock fall down the cliffs on the upper part of 
the Val d'Anniviers side. On August 30th, 
1895, two English ladies, Miss Sampson and 
Miss Growse, set out to cross this pass, with 
the guides, Louis Carrel and Anton Biener. 
They had nearly got clear of the risky part, 
and were about to cross a small crevasse at 
the base, Carrel leading, followed by Miss 
Growse, then Miss Sampson, with Biener last. 

" All at once," said Carrel, " I heard a great noise, 
and saw stones coming down. Said I to myself, 
' We are all lost.' I shouted ' Shelter yourselves ! ' a 
thing which it was impossible for them to do. Louis 
crouched down against the upper lip of the crevasse, 
and was only struck by some small fragments. Miss 
Growse was rather severely bruised by the blows she 
received, but was not seriously hurt. Miss Sampson 
was hit in the back, and so was Biener. A flask he 
carried was crushed." " How large was the stone 
which struck Miss Sampson?" I asked. " I am not 
sure," Carrel answered ; " one couldn't see clearly, but 
I think about as large as this " — indicating a cube of 
about sixteen inches. "What did you do then?" 
44 She could not walk, and I took her on my back ; but 
more steps had to be cut, and we got along 
slowly." "You cut steps with one hand, and held 
her on with the other ?*' "Yes." "Had she any 
strength?" "Yes, she hung, on to me with her 
hands over my shoulders." "Could she talk?" 
"Yes; but I couldn't understand what she said, for 
she spoke in English." "Go on with the story." 
" I carried her until we were out of reach of falling 
stones, and then laid her on the snow, on my coat 
and other things. She was then alive." " How long 
was this after the accident?" "About an hour. 
Just then the guardian of the Mountet hut came up, 
with two of his men. He had seen that something 
was wrong, and hurried across the glacier to meet us. 

'She is dying/ he said to me. It was so. She 
turned pale, her eyes closed, and it was all over." 

' The fault on this occasion was that the 
excursion was made too late in the day. 
The party arrived on the top of the pass at 
ten a.m., and ought to have been there several 
hours earlier. In the next quoted incident 
there was no fault on the part of the victim. 

There is in the Valley of Zermatt a peak 
called the Leiterspitze, ten thousand five 
hundred and fifty feet high, part of the 
mountain named the Taeschhorn. The road 
to Zermatt skirts its base, at a height of four 
thousand seven hundred and fifty feet. I 
was walking up it in the summer of 1904, 
and noticed a ruined and another damaged 
chalet, and inquired into the matter at the 
village of Taesch, which was a little farther 
on. The story related was extraordinary, 
and I returned and interviewed the owner of 
the two buildings, and this is what he said : 
"On May 27th, 1904, I was asleep in my 
house with my wife, eight children, and a 
servant, and was awoke about midnight by 
a terrible noise in the east. I jumped out 
of bed and went to the window, and 
saw what seemed to me to be flashes of 
lightning in the forest on the Leiterspitze. 
This was caused by a descending boulder, 
crashing through the forest, striking sparks 
when it hit the rocks. The place where the 
rock came out of the forest was several 
hundred metres from my nearest chalet, 
which was my storehouse. It carried the 
whole of the top away. The contents were 
destroyed. It then took another hop of 
about forty-five metres (one hundred and 
forty-eight feet) into my dwelling-house, on 
the other side of the road. It smashed in 
the lower part and then did not go any 
farther." The storehouse was completely 
destroyed, and the boulder, when I saw it in 
the basement of the dwelling-house, measured 
thirteen feet long by seven feet broad, but it 
had been longer. The owner of the houses, 
Alois Lerjen, was engaged in breaking it 
up. This malicious boulder, which, it was 
ascertained subsequently, broke away neax 
the top of the Leiterspitze, descended for five 
thousand feet, cutting a groove in the forest ; 
and, on emerging from it, made straight for 
Lerjen's storehouse, and destroyed it. Then 
it did not continue a straight, downward 
course, but went off at a tangent of some- 
thing like thirty degrees to his dwelling-house 
and crushed in the basement. If it had 
struck this house a few feet higher up every- 
one in it would probably have been severely 
injured or kilted ;^fojwa& no one was hurt, 



although frightened. The poor Lerjen was 
temporarily ruined by this disaster, hut was 
set on his legs again by sympathizers* 

4. Tragedies arising from slips of various 
kinds. It was said at the beginning of this 
article that casualties or fatalities arising 
through slipping greatly outnumber those 
which happen from the three preceding 
causes which are mentioned. The stories of 
deaths that have occurred through slipping — 
sometimes on ice, snow, rock, or grass — if 
collected would fill a thick volume. Il may 
be taken as certain that fresh examples will 
occur during the present season. 

One of the most dramatic of these stories, 
which clings to the mind although it occurred 
forty seven years ago, is the accident which 
happened to Mr. John Birkbeck, jun., in 
186 1. The father committed his son, a lad, 
to the care of the Rev. Charles Hudson* 
The facts which are stated 
in the following paragraph 
are taken from an article 
that was contributed to the 
second series of "Peaks, 
Passes, and Glaciers/' pub- 
lished by Messrs, Longman, 
in T862J and as this book 
can be procured easily the 
account here is given briefly. 

It is said in that article 
"that John Birkbeck formed 
one of the party in com- 
pliance with his father's dis- 
tinct wish, 7 ' and a little later 
on it is said that " after 
trying him in several smaller 
expeditions, I was quite 
satisfied of his powers as 
regards strength, good head, 
and sure foot," Notwith- 
standing, it seems clear 
that the reverend gentleman was lacking 
in judgment, for he let his pupil, whom he 
was especially bound to regard, go aside. 
The young man probably did not understand 
the serious nature of the place where he 
slipped, He went down (according to the 
statement in " Peaks, Passes, and Glaciers," 
page 222) for one thousand seven hundred 
and sixty- seven feet, and when he arrived at 
the bottom he was nearly skinned and all but 
dead. He remained between life and death For 
a long time- One would have thought that 
this occasion would have made a deep and 
permanent impression upon his guardian. 
Nevertheless, a few years later, he took out 
another young man to the Alps, who slipped, 
fell, and killed himself and his protector. 

aJGUNTAJN-riUILM: - ^ Will 


FrvHia Portrait 

The first ascent of the Matterhorn might 
have been a brilliant success. All the 
pleasure which the occasion ought to have 
given was destroyed by this young man, who 
was not fit to be upon that mountain. Those 
who were concerned in this ascent set out on 
July 13th, 1865. Before starting there were 
doubts about the capacity of the youth, who 
was under the guardianship of the Rev. 
Charles Hudson, In answer to questions as 
to his ability, his guardian said: "He 
has done Mont Blanc in less time than 
most men* . . , I consider he is a sufficiently 
good man to go with us. JJ Now, upon some 
mountains it is enough for those who follow 
to go precisely in the steps of their pre- 
decessors. Upon other mountains that is 
not the case. The young man, upon this 
occasion, did not understand that, or that a 
single false step might be faLal. At a critical 
point he slipped and went 
on his back, his heels flew 
up in the air and smote 
Michel Croz (a guide who 
preceded and had assisted 
him) in the small of the 
back and knocked him 
right over The strain of 
these two falling men pulled 
the Rev, Charles Hudson 
off his legs, and Lord 
Francis Douglas, who fol- 
lowed the others, was jerked 
off immediately afterwards. 
The whole incident was 
over in less than two 
seconds. Then all four slid 
and bumped down for a 
long distance, flinging out 
their arms endeavouring to 
save themselves, flew over a 
cliff three thousand feet 
high, and were dashed to pieces. The spectacle 
that their remains presented when they were 
recovered was revolting. I have seen nothing 
like it before or since, and do not wish to sec 
such a sight again. The three leading men 
were there, all stripped absolutely naked, and 
could only be identified from some small 
peculiarities. Lord Francis Douglas was not 
below, and until now no one knows what 
became of him — whether he was literally 
knocked and torn to pieces, or whether his 
descent was arrested and he was suspended 
on the cliff. 

Michel Croz, who was one of the finest 
mountaineers and strongest men with whom 
I have had anything to do, was lying a 

little tofl^fflftflteih He was a 




hit Lance Ctitkiit. 



. . . . 




^^' * jJ^jifeflft'VFiMH^^ 


! - ^TJB^» > *n»^ 



VM r *ifry ^"3 

The Matterhoriu showing the spot whtife Michel Ctoje and his party perished— A t ihe spgi where the fwM slip wiis made; 

B, where ihe bodies wen recovered. 

man who could, and did for the sake of 
amusement, take me up by the coat collar with 
one hand and hold me out at arm's length, 
although 1 weighed over eleven stone. He 
was simply smashed. It was as if some 
tremendous giant had taken him up and had 
dashed him against rocks over and over 
again, until all semblance of humanity was 
obliterated. The condition of the two others 
was just as bad, A subscription was raised 
in favour of the sisters of this grand guide, 
who was their mainstay. He devoted his 
earnings towards their support- The sub- 

by Google 

scription amounted to nearly three hundred 
pounds. u That is not much for the life of 
a man," Gustave Pore said to me, and I 
agreed with him. 

A thing which I remember well, although 
it occurred forty- three years ago, was that 
upon getting near the summit of the Matter- 
horn, and arriving at the font of the difficult 
part, Michel Croz turned to me and said, 
" Monsieur Whymper, I would rather go up 
here with you and another guide than with 
those who are going/ 1 He guessed what might 
happen. Five hours later he was a dead man. 

Original from 


S Monsieur Gaston de Tre- 
vignon at home ? " 

14 Monsieur le Marquis is 
at home," replied the man. 
Then he added, politely, 
The late Marquis de Tre- 
vignon died six months ago," 

So Gaston had come into his kingdom 
at last A kingdom, apparently, of forest, 
moorland , and stream, with ll half-ruined 
chateau standing in a neglected garden. I 
followed the servant into a stone-flagged hall 
of fine proportions, with a superb granite fire- 
place at one end and a noble flight of stairs, 
of the best Renaissance period, at the other. 
These served to illustrate the contrast between 
a lordly past and a squalid present, for the 
carpet, a genuine Aubusson, was in rags, and 
every article of furniture presented an appear- 
ance of extreme age and decay. Even the 
servant, who had answered (after a long 
interval) my third impatient ringing of the 
bell, seemed as old as the spindle-legged 
rhairs. And — it may have been my fancy — 
but I could have sworn that he glared at me, 
as if resenting the advent of a stranger and 
a foreigner, 

A moment later Gaston came in, with 
both hands outstretched, and the gay smile I 
remembered so well upon his lips. Ten 
yeais, however, had changed him greatly, 
perhaps not for the worse. He had lost 
entirely the look of youth, always so enchant- 
ing, but he had gained instead a distinction 
—the hall-mark of suffering and disappoint- 
ment bravely endured, 

VoL ixjtvLL— SL 

Copyright, igoS, by Horace Armesley VachelL 

" You remembered me ? " he said. "You 
have hunted me out? How charming of 
you ! " 

He was so glad to see me that I blushed, 
unable to explain brutally that chance had 
brought me to his door. Motoring through 
Brittany, I had lost my way. A glance at 
the map showed me to be within a few kilo 
metres of Trevignon, and at once 1 recalled 
my old friend and felt impelled to visit him. 
I had an indefinable conviction that he was 
at home, and a sense, an instinct, that the 
dropped stitches of our friendship were to 
be picked up again. It is a fact that I had 
forgotten his name I One of the many 
young Frenchmen working beside me in 
Julien's atelier in Paris, he had challenged 
attention by his bad drawing and abominable 
colour. A greater duffer never spoiled canvas. 
But we liked him because he was so gay and 
keen, and so free from any taint of jealousy, 
We knew that he was the nephew and heir 
of some eccentric old man with a chateau in 
Brittany, and we knew also that he had 
inherited from his father a small income, 
large enough to pay his own bills and some 
of the bills of his less fortunate fellow- 

"You will stay with me? Thou must 

The familiar " tu " settled the matter. 

" All the same," continued Gaston, with a 
frown, l£ this is a ruin, as you see, but we 
shall forget that when we are talking about 

*' Do you still mint ?" I asked. 

[, in the United States of AiPerifia* 



now." Then, reading some astonishment in 
my face, he plunged into voluble speech. 
He owned the chateau and the rough landes 
that encompassed it, but these, unhappily, 
were mortgaged. As he was speaking the 
old servant entered the hall. Gaston told 
him to bring in my suit-case. I instructed 
my chauffeur to drive to the nearest town 
and return next day for orders. Gaston 
laughed, rather awkwardly. 

" I can't put him up here," he muttered. 
He examined the car with enthusiasm. 
14 Lucky beggar ! Made out of pictures — 
kein 1 " 

" Call them portraits." 

" I heard you were painting princesses — 
and I was delighted." 

The sincerity of his tone was pleasant to 
hear. A decade had not soured his sweet 

" Where shall I put monsieur's suit-case ? " 

To my surprise Gaston answered in Breton. 
I knew enough to understand that my host 
was turning out of his own room. 

"Mon vt'eux" I said, firmly, "I refuse 
flatly to occupy your room, and I'm as 
obstinate as I used to be." 

" There is only one other room habitable, 
and that " 

" Yes ? " 

"Was the one in which my unfortunate 
uncle was murdered." 


" Surely you read the case in the papers ? " 
As I shook my head, he continued, lightly, 
" He was robbed and murdered. I'll tell you 
about it later. Meanwhile " 

" Put me into your uncle's room." 

Gaston made a wry face. 

" You English are cold-blooded. I couldn't 
sleep there myself. The villagers say it is 

"So much the better. I want to see a 

" It's locked up. Joking apart, I dislike to 
have you sleep in that room. Coadic wouldn't 
sleep there for a thousand francs — wouldst 
thou, Yann ? " 

"Not for ten thousand, monsieur." He 
shuddered -slightly. In his odd, harsh voice 
he added: "It is locked, and I have the key, 
but, nevertheless, it is not empty." 

" That settles it ! " said I, gaily. " I must 
pass a night there. If I encounter a spirit I 
shall ask him many questions." 

" Have thy own way." Gaston turned to 
Coadic. "Put monsieur's things into my 
uncle's room. It is, at any rate, as dry as a 
bone, and the bed is comfortable." 

f But- 

" Do as I tell you," said Gaston, irritably. 
The old man bowed and went out. 

"A faithful servant, but queer. All we 
Bretons are superstitious, although we hate 
to admit it. Coadic has never got over my 
uncle's death." 

"It must have been an awful shock to 

" I expected it," he answered, curtly. 

" Expected it ? " I echoed, in astonishment 

" Yes. Come up to the studio and have 
a look at my mac/uns" 

He turned abruptly, and I followed him 
upstairs and into a large room upon the first 
floor. Two things struck me. My poor 
friend had been working furiously, and — 
alas ! — to no purpose. His drawing seemed 
to have improved ; his colour remained 

" Your candid opinion," he said, eagerly. 

I hesitated, dumb with distress. Then I 
exclaimed : " How you have come on in 
drawing ! " 

Gaston's face beamed. 

" I'm thinking of a one-man exhibition in 
London," he said. " Good idea — hein f " 

"We must have a talk about that later," 
said I. "You have a lot of stuff. Halloa! 
What's this?" 

The head of a girl, delightfully drawn in 
pastel, with a freshness of colour, a delicacy 
of tone, and an apprehension of values quite 
out of the ordinary, smiled at me from the 

" Ah," said Gaston, " that's my Argentine." 

He took down the pastel and placed it in 
a better light. 

" What do you think of my Argentine ? " 

" It's the best thing you've done. You 
must stick to pastel. It's " 

He interrupted me, frowning. " I can do 
better work than that. I want your opinion 
of the girl, not of the picture." 


"A friend painted it. If you could see 
the original " 

" She must be perfectly charming." 

"She is," said Gaston, softly. With an 
ingenuous gesture he laid his hand upon my 
sleeve. " I hope to marry her some day. 
That is why I have worked so hard." 

I stared at the sweet face upon the easel. 
Did the winning of this dear creature depend 
upon the success of her lover as a painter? 
Why had he not devoted his time and 
energies to something else ? Then I re- 
membered that he was an avowed Legitimist, 
and as such disqualified for public life. 




44 Are you engaged to her?" I asked 

44 I was. It was broken off by her people 

a few months ago. I don't blame them. 

Sit down ! I saw your look of amazement 

when I told you that I expected my uncle to 

" Do you mean to say," I asked, " that not 
one lias been placed on the market ? " 
"Not one." 

" And the murderer left no trace ? " 
41 He vanished into thin air." 


be murdered He had the most remaikable 
collection of gems in France, and he kept 
them in his bedroom," 

"I see. The sale of these gems would 
have made you a rich man." 

Gaston nodded. "They were valued at 
fifty thousand pounds/' He added details, 
More than one previous attempt at burghry 
had been frustrated by the vigilance of old 
Coadic. Finally, the uncle was found dead in 
his bedroom* The police failed to discover 
either the murderer or the gems. 

Digitized byV^OUglL 

" What an extraordinary crime ! " 

** It baffled even Epine, the famous Chief of 
Police. I must tell you that Epine did not 
believe that my uncle was murdered, and the 
doctor supported his view. They held that 
he died of shock." 

11 It comes to the same thing." 

u Exactly. He was found dead upon the 
floor, near the window through which the 
robber escaped," 

" How did the man get in? " 

* l That ©ridjartedsfrcmystery. My uncle 




had special bars and bolts to his room, as 
you will see. The robber came through the 
window; but wait till you look out of that 

" You were here at the time ? " 

" Yes. For a day or two £pine suspected 

He recited a few details. The late marquis, 
an eccentric, had spent most of his life in 
Paris. The collection of rare gems had 
become an overmastering passion. Against 
the warnings and protests of his nephew, he 
had insisted upon living at Trevignon. It 
was understood between him and Gaston 
that the collection was to be sold after his 

11 We were talking of it the very night he 
died," said Gaston. "The question of my 
marriage had come up, and he told me that 
he was suffering from organic disease of the 
heart, and that I should not have to wait 
long for my Argentine. He was not a bad 
sort. There he is : a rough sketch of mine." 

He indicated an old man with white hair, 
dressed in old-fashioned black clothes, possi- 
bly the very suit which hung loosely upon 
the bony frame of his old servant, and 
wearing a black velvet skull-cap. The best 
thing in the study was this cap, and I said so. 

" Une petite note qui chante? said Gaston. 

Presently we crossed a wide corridor and 
entered a room even larger than the studio. 
It was excellently furnished, and illuminated 
by two windows upon the side opposite to 
the door. The bed, a massive four-poster 
with brocaded curtains, faced the fireplace. 
Gaston showed me the bolts and bars of the 
door ; then he walked to the windows. The 
first of these evidently had not been opened 
for many years. Gaston opened the other, 
a diamond-paned casement. 

" Look down," he said, curtly. 

We were above the cour d'honneur^ grey 
with ancient paving-stones, in the interstices 
of which grass grew rankly. Beneath the 
window ran a narrow ledge of granite ; below 
this was a leaden pipe, fantastically orna- 
mented, which ran perpendicular to the 

"The robber climbed up that. Coadic 
came to me next morning in great agitation, 
saying that he couldn't get into his master's 
room. It took a stout blacksmith a couple 
of hours to force an entrance. My uncle lay 
just there" — he indicated the spot — "and 
the gems were gone. The coffer which held 
them was found at the bottom of yonder 

I stared out of the window. I looked up 

and down. The ledge ended abruptly at an 
angle of the wall. 

" The robber must have been a bit of a 

"Nothing is more certain. He swarmed 
up the pipe, pulled himself on to that ledge, 
and thence through the window." 

" How do you know he came by the 

" It is lead ; there were marks upon it. 
As a matter of fact, those marks lifted 
suspicion from me." 

" If he had dropped on to the ledge from 
above " 

" Impossible — without elaborate arrange- 
ments of ropes and planks on the roof, 
fipine tried to squeeze a small boy down the 
chimney. The walls are solid granite." 

" And the other servants ? " 

"There were no other servants. Coadic 
and my uncle lived alone ; a woman came in 
daily to do the cooking. We continue the 

"Did you ever see these gems ? " 

" See them ? A thousand times. I saw 
them the night he died in this very room. 
He slept with them. I tell you he adored 
them. He sacrificed everything for them. 
He thought an intaglio the most beautiful 
thing in the world. Perhaps you can under- 
stand that ? " 

He laid a slight emphasis on the pronoun. 

" What makes you say so ? " 

" Don't you collect ? " 

" Not I." 

" But you wear a fine specimen." 

He indicated a ring that had been given to 
me, a head of Achilles, very delicately cut. 
Gaston took my hand in his and examined it. 

" A beautiful emerald," he murmured. 

" Full of flaws." 

" Most of them are. But what a colour ! " 

" What can have become of these gems ? " 

" fipine is of opinion that they have been 
sold in America. And collectors, he says, 
are most unscrupulous, and some are as 
crazy as my poor uncle. Epine told me, in 
confidence, the names of two millionaires 
who would have bought the Trevignon 
intaglios without asking any questions. So 
far as I am concerned, my dear fellow, the 
confounded stones have ceased to be. Let 
us go back to the studio and talk about 

We talked " shop " till dinner-time. Coadic 
brought hot water to my room. As he 
placed the brass pitcher upon the washing- 
stand he said, heavily, "The water is nearly 
boiling." Saying this, he stared at my ring. 




"I always take it off," said L 

"Might I look at it, if monsieur pleases ?" 

I handed it to him. His hand trembled 
as he took it, and it seemed to me that he 
eyed it with repugnance, as if it were some 
malefic object. 

" It is genuine," he said, calmly, returning 
it to me. " I thought for an instant it was 
one of the imita- 

"You care about 
these things ? " 

( *With reason* 
monsieur. 1 knew 
every gem in the 
Trevignon collec- 

"Then, if neces- 
sary, you could 
identify them ? K 

"Certainly ; but 
I shall not be asked 
to do so/ 1 

" Why are you so 
sure of that ? " 

The old man 
nodded his head 

(l Because, mon- 
sieur, the man who 
stole the gems was 
a collector himself, 
not an ordinary 

"Then Epine 
ought to search the 
world for a collector 
young and active 
enough to swarm 
up that pipe and 
pull himself on to 
that ledge," 

"I ventured to say 
as much to Mon- 
sieur Epine myself," 

He bowed and withdrew silently, 

Dinner was served a few minutes later. 
Coadic waited on us, and filled my glass 
with wine. Gaston drank cider. 

"This is wonderful wine/' I observed. 

u Romance, '87/' replied Gaston. *' There 
are a few bottles left. My uncle liked it ; 
drank a bottle to himself. He said it was 
too good to share with a friend. Indirectly, 
I have thought that this particular wine cost 
him his life. He had a bottle the night he 
was murdered. The doctor was of opinion 
that had he drunk cider he would have heard 
the man opening the window. He had a 


pistol under his pillow, and knew how to 
use it." 

I sipped the Burgundy, reflecting that it 
was the finest wine I had ever tasted ; the 
bottled sunshine of the Cote d'Chv I en- 
treated my host to taste it, but he refused, 

"It's a superb wine, but I've an absurd 
and indefensible prejudice against it— for the 

reason I have men- 
tioned" Very 
simply, he added : 
" I was fond of my 
uncle, in spite of 
his eccentricity," 

This surprised 
me, for 1 was sen- 
sible of an ever- 
increasing exaspera- 
tion against a selfish 
monomaniac who 
had sacrificed his 
own flesh and 
blood for the sake 
of a few so-called 
precious stones ! 
And the coffer 
(which I had seen 
in the studio) was 
light enough and 
small enough to be 
carried easily in one 

We went to bed 
early* As he bade 
me good night 
Gaston said, 
seriously, "Are you 
quite certain you 
won't change your 
mind? 1 ' 
I laughed. 
" I can hardly 
keep my eyes open. 
That Romance is 
strong drink/' 
" I am so glad you liked It" 


I began to undress as soon as I was alone. 
About to jump into bed, I noticed that the 
window was shut. I opened it and glanced 
out, A moon, nearly at the full, was playing 
hide-and-seek with some dark clouds. For 
the moment it illuminated the courtyard and 
the facade of the chateau. Poor Gaston ! 
To own so charming a home, to know that 
a few hundred pounds would make it habit- 
able, a shrine for the delightful creature he 
loved, and now — unless a miracle happened r . 




— he would be constrained to live on here 
alone, seeing his ancient house fall to pieces, 
powerless to avert its destruction. What an 
abominable fate ! 

Why had not the accursed thief fallen and 
broken his neck ? 

Examining more carefully the ledge and 
the pipe, I came to the conclusion that the 
descent must have been fairly easy. But the 
ascent was difficult enough to have taxed the 
powers of a professional gymnast. 

Again I was about to slip into bed, when I 
perceived that the draught from the window 
had blown open the door. I shut it, but 
it opened again. Impatiently I bolted it, 
divining that the hasp was worn out. A 
second later I was between the sheets — and 

When I woke I failed to realize where I 
was, but I lay still, a sort of vagabond in 
slumber's suburbs, wandering idly here and 
there, not curious and yet not incurious, fol- 
lowing the will o' the wisp Fancy, whither- 
soever the wanton nymph might lead. I can 
swear that I was not thinking of Gaston's 
uncle. I was vaguely conscious of occupy- 
ing a moonlit room and an extremely com- 
fortable bed. 

Presently this pleasing state of somnolence 
changed its character. I heard a faint 
sound. Certainly, at this moment I woke 
up, and I told myself that there was a 
mouse or a rat under the bed. I went 
to sleep again, hoping that it was not 
a rat. Again I woke with a disagreeable 
start. This time I could hear nothing, but I 
experienced the common and always detest- 
able impression of not being alone in the 
room. I reasoned with myself, remembering 
that I had bolted the heavy door. And yet 
every fibre of my being told me that some 
living creature stood close to me. 

My first impulse urged me to leave my 
bed and search the room : an impulse I dis- 
missed as cowardly, one to be cast out as it 
were an unclean spirit. I shut my eyes, and 
tested the soporific of playing over a recent 
game of golf. I did the first hole in four, 
and was comfortably approaching the 
second green, when I seemed to hear a 
faint sigh. 

I opened my eyes and saw an amorphous 
shadow on the wall to the right of the bed. 
The shadow moved. Moving, it assumed 
the form of some monstrous toad. It 
remained still, but it deepened in tint, and 
then faded to a faint blur. Purposely I had 
drawn the left curtain of the bed, so as to 
prevent the moonlight from falling on my 

face. The shadow, therefore, was cast by 
something or somebody between the window 
and the bed 

The uncanny thing moved again, faded, 
and vanished. This time I recognised in 
the shadow the vague semblance, an outline 
only, of a man. 

I sat up in bed, making no noise, straining 
my ears rather than my eyes, for the moon 
had slipped behind a cloud. Peering round 
the edge of the curtain, I saw, silhouetted 
against the window, the figure of a man with 
his face turned away from me. In the very 
dim light he appeared to be staring intently 
at some object upon the dressing-table. 
Suddenly, as the moon reappeared, the table 
was flooded with light, and I saw that the 
object upon which my visitor's gaze was 
focused was my emerald ring. The man 
himself had his back to me, and, his head 
being bent over the table, I could make 
nothing of it except this — he wore a black 
velvet skull-cap. 

" U tie petite note qui chanted 

Certainly the confounded thing started a 
buzzing in my head ; every nerve seemed to 
be jangling. Often and often I had expressed 
a wish to meet a ghost, and now — let me be 
entirely frank — I was frightened. The sombre 
figure did not move; nor did I. But my 
brain became active. Passages from books 
dealing with psychical phenomena flitted into 
my mind like bats. Thousands of men and 
women believe that, under certain conditions, 
the spirits of the departed return to this earth 
and may be seen of the living. The dead 
marquis had exhibited an inordinate passion 
for gems — a passion entailing misery and 
suffering upon his nephew and a sweet, inno- 
cent girl. Was it incredible — was it not 
rather probable and just — that the spirit of 
this egotist should be constrained to linger in 
expiation near the spot whence it had been 
torn from the clay ? And if it were true that 
even in death the ruling passion of a life 
should remain strong, might it not be said 
with greater truth that the same passion 
would remain strong, or stronger, after death? 

Summoning what moral courage I pos- 
sessed, I determined to address my visitor. 

" Who are you ? " I said, in French. 

As I spoke I stepped on to the floor, and, 
as ill luck would have it, the moon once 
more disappeared, leaving me in Cimmerian 
darkness. I could just discern the black 
figure between the window and me. It 
seemed to assume enormous proportions: 
an optical illusion due to the fact that it had 
silently approached me. An instant later I 





felt cold fingtrs at my throat The attack 
was so swift and unexpected that I fell back- 
wards upon the bed, which was behind me, 
and therefore an obstacle in the line of 
retreat I can remember feeling the balls 
of the man's thumbs upon my gullet and a 
sensation of acute pain at the back of my 

When I recovered consciousness it was 
broad daylight, I was lying in bed, and 
someone was hammering at the barred door 

I admitted— Gaston. 

" Had a good night ? " he asked. 

Still half dazed, I glanced round 
There was no sign of a struggle, I 
Gaston what had passed. 

" Nightmare/' said he, with a smile. 

"No," said I. 

Gaston laughed genially, 

" Come, come ! If your visitor was a man, 
how did he get in?" 

" How did the murderer get in ? " 

"Why should a robber wear a skull-cap? 
If it were the spirit of my poor uncle, 
why should he attack you ? 
He was the mildest person 
imaginable* After a cold 
bath and a breakfast you 
will laugh at your own 

As he was speaking 
Coadic came in with my 
shaving water. 

14 Monsieur has seen my 
uncle's ghost," said Gaston, 

"I am not surprised," 
replied the old man, 

"The bath-room*, my one 
extravagance, is near the 
studio. Are you ready ? " 

** Give me five minutes 
more," said I, 

Gaston went out, leaving 
Coadic pottering about. In 
my rather irritable frame 
of mind his slow s silent 
movements exasperated 

" You can go," I said, 

Alone, I tried to deter- 
mine whether the events 
of the night were or were 
not nightmare, 1 recon- 
stituted the scene- Upon 
the table, where the moon- 
beams had fallen, lay my 

ring. If my visitor was flesh and blood, 
why had he not taken it? I went to the 
glass and examined my throat. Two red 
marks were visible : enough to provoke 
curiosity, not conviction. Gaston would 
laugh and say they were self inflicted I 
examined the window and the ledge beneath 
it. I stared at the solid stone walls of the 
room. Lastly I lay down upon the floor, 

I was about to get up, when I spied some- 
thing at the side of the bed, almost con- 
cealed by the brocaded curtain. With an 
exclamation, I picked it up. 

It was a black velvet skull-cap. 

As I was staring at it, half-stupefied, I 
heard Gaston's voice in the corridor, calling 

Instantly it occurred to me that it would 
be edifying and amusing to let him find the 
cap. I replaced it under the curtain and 
went to my bath. 

The cold water acted like an astringent 
tonic upon my weakened sensibilities. I 
called to Gaston as I passed his room. 

DiTdi^SUHlc£l»nk >i 




"Come to me when you're dressed." 

Entering my own room, I went straight to 
the curtain and lifted it. 

The cap had vanished ! 

I sat down upon the edge of my bed, 
afraid to face the facts, with the fear gaining 
strength that I was going out of my mind. 
My eyes wandered to the dressing-table and 
fixed themselves, aimlessly, upon the ring. 
Another mystery ! The ring was not quite 
in the same place. Somebody had moved it 
while I was in the bath-room ! 

At once the fog upon my faculties lifted 
and I saw clearly. Coadic had moved the 
ring and taken away the cap. Coadic, then, 
was my nocturnal visitor. Swooping upon 
the truth, I realized the significance of his 
presence in my room. Like his old master, 
he had become a monomaniac. The tempta- 
tion to see and touch my emerald had been 
too much for him. Probably he had reckoned 
upon the soporific effects of a bottle of 
Burgundy, and had known that he was 
running slight risks. But, for that matter, 
did a monomaniac ever pause to reckon 
risks ? 

The next question was not easily answered. 

How did he get into my room ? 

That question I never answered then, for 
at that moment my mind leaped forward to 
the inevitable conviction that Coadic had 
stolen the gems. Would it be possible to 
prove this ? 

Gaston came in whistling. 

He began to chaff me. I submitted with 
my tongue in my cheek, unwilling to take the 
ingenuous chatterbox into my confidence 
till I had devised some sort of plan. At all 
hazards Coadic must be hoodwinked. Being 
insane, he might destroy both the gems and 
himself if he had reason to suppose that 
discovery was impending. The guileless 
Gaston would betray the truth with a glance 
or a gesture. 

Happily, the first breakfast in France is 
not a serious affair. We finished our coffee, 
and then Gaston left me to smoke a cigarette 
under a fine chestnut tree. I could see the 
well and the facade from my seat under the 
tree. Knowing that Coadic was the robber, I 
was enabled to co-ordinate my facts with a 
cumulative force denied to Monsieur Epine. 
For instance, the ascent by the water-pipe 
and the rise on to the ledge were, obviously, 
feats beyond an old man's powers. But he 
had strong hands, and the descent presented 
no great difficulty. 

How did he get in ? 

The answer to the problem came to me 

quickly. It would have come as quickly 
to the famous Chief of Police had he 
had the smallest reason to suspect a servant 
who had served his master faithfully for 
thirty years. 

He must have been concealed in the room 
when his master went to bed. 

Here, however, a difficulty obstructed my 
advance. Granting that Coadic was prepared 
to run risks to steal the gems, was it likely 
that he would run equal, if not greater, risks 
merely to look at an intaglio not so fine as 
at least a score already in his possession? 
Was he so mad as that? I could hardly 
believe it. 

Nevertheless, I was certain that the gems 
were concealed, with a maniac's cunning, in 
or near the chiteau. How to find their 
hiding-place began to worry me. 

I smoked another cigarette before I joined 
Gaston. Soon afterwards Coadic came up 
and said that my chauffeur had driven over 
for orders. 

" You will stay a day or two longer? " said 

I caught a quiver of expectation upon 
Coadic's lips. 

" Forgive me," I replied, slowly, " but I 
must leave you this afternoon." 

"I can't press any friend to stay in this 
abominable hole," said Gaston. " You won't 
leave till this afternoon ? " 


"Pack monsieur's suit-case," said Gaston 
to Coadic. 

" I am anxious to inspect every nook and 
cranny of your chiteau," said I. 

Once more I detected a gleam of suspicion 
in the eyes which turned uneasily from 

"There is nothing to see," said Gaston. 

" You forget that I'm mad on Renaissance 
architecture. Send Coadic with me, if it 
bores you." 

Although he protested at first, the sugges- 
tion pleased him. An hour or so later 
Coadic and I started. There was indeed 
little to see inside the house — the walls were 
bare, the flooring rotten, and the rooms had 
been gutted of furniture. 

" The late marquis sold everything to buy 
gems ? " 

" Yes," said Coadic, sullenly. 

To avert still further his suspicions, I spoke 
of the events of the previous night as a bad 
dream. Then I began to talk about gems, 
asking questions and receiving answers 
more or less guarded as Coadic became 




If I had experienced any doubt as to his 
madness it was resolved quickly. His eyes 
glittered, his face and hands twitched. Any 
other subject turned him into a graven 

"That is all, monsieur/' he said, as we 
came out of the fine stone-vaulted kitchen. 

41 You have not shown me your room, ,J said 
L " Is there not a lit clos in it, an old 
armoirtt something or other interesting ? H 

With a shrug of his shoulders he turned to 
the right As I had divined, his room was 
on the ground floor, with a small window- 
opening on to the tour d 'honnenr^ and close 
to the water-pipe. Like all the windows 
level with the ground, it was heavily barred. 

<( Strong bars," said L 

* £ Monsieur is right," said Coadic, nervously. 

I made certain that one at least of the 
bars was removable, I strolled to the 
window and looked out 

"You are close to the pipe/' I said, care- 
lessly. "But you heard nothing upon that 
night? 11 

"Nothing," he repeated; but the pupils 

of his eyes grew larger and he slightly 
moistened his lips. My questions, my 
presence in his room made him uneasy. I 
looked about me. The floor was of stone — 
solid slabs of granite. The furnishings were 
of the simplest— a truckle bed, a cheap chest 
of drawers, a wash-hand stand, and a small 

"Where do you keep the gems? 11 said I, 

He said nothing, but his eyes glared into 
mine, and I saw the veins stand out on his 

"Come, come l w said I, impatiently, "The 
game is up, You were in my room last 
night. You left behind your skull-cap — and 
I found it by the curtain. The marks of 
your thumbs are on my windpipe at this 
instant/ 5 

He gave a hoarse cry and jumped to the 
window, I supposed that he wished to 
escape- He soon undeceived me, for he 
plucked out the iron bar and attacked me 
with insane fury. I avoided his first wild 
blow with a side-step, which, however, placed 
me in an angle of the room, Too late 

'this time the mapman advanced cautiously, with ©FioWsat^ttPffT 




I regretted my folly in not speaking to 

This time the madman advanced cautiously, 
with uplifted weapon. Shielding my head 
with my right hand, I closed. He struck hard, 
but my left fist landed full on the point of 
his jaw. He went over backwards, striking 
his head against the iron bed. The bar 
clattered upon the stone flags. Instantly I 
secured it, but Coadic lay still, with a face 
the colour of dirty tallow. As I stood over 
him, Gaston rushed in. 

11 He has injured my arm," said I. " He's 
a dangerous maniac." 

Between us we got him on to the bed. 
He breathed stertorously, but his eyes re- 
mained closed. I muttered hastily half-a- 
dozen words of explanation. 

"The gems must be at Trevignon," I 

" We can force him to speak when he 
recovers," said Gaston. 

But within a few hours it became plain 
that Coadic might die without regaining 
articulate speech. The blow — not a very 
heavy, one— the fall, or, more probably, the 
horror of discovery, or the fear of being 
deprived of the gems, had turned him into a 
raving lunatic. The doctor who bandaged 
my arm insisted upon his removal at once to 
a maison de santc. Gaston, from the first, 
refused to believe that the servant had 
murdered his master. 

" He loved my uncle, I tell you," he 
repeated, obstinately. " His grief was not 
simulated. I swear to that." 

" Perhaps you will affirm that he didn't 
take the gems ? " 

" If he took the gems we shall find them." 

" I sha'n't leave this house till we do," I 
answered, irritably. 

" The chateau must be searched by an 

His coolness exasperated me. To be 
honest, I did not want an expert to find 
the gems. I was enthusiastically keen to 
discover them myself. We had searched 
Coadic's room very thoroughly and found 
nothing except the skull-cap. But, lying 
awake the same night, I had time to consider 
the problem with a certain sense of detach- 
ment. It was obvious that Coadic did not 
run the risk of my discovering him merely 
to stare at my emerald ring. Had his mad- 
ness been strong enough to justify such a risk, 
he would have stolen the emerald, regardless 
of everything. No, another motive had 
forced him to enter my room. What ? 

I could think of only one. He must have 

by LiOOgle 

kept the gems in his late master's bedroom, 
of which he had the key, to which, apparently, 
he alone had access. After the police had 
left the chateau, what safer hiding-place 
could be found ? Here, and here only, he 
could gloat over the spoil, finger and caress 
his beloved stones. The room was said to 
be haunted. It had been haunted by 
Coadic. I got out of bed and looked at my 
watch. It was three in the morning. I 
knew that the gems were a few feet away. 

Then began an absurd and painful search, 
simplified, however, by the fact that the walls 
were of stone and the floor of solid oak. 
Incidentally, I discovered not a single 
mouse-hole. The room was mouse-proof. 

By this time I had examined minutely 
every object except the huge bed. Now I 
stood, candle in hand, staring at its faded 
splendours, wondering whether it was as 
solid as it seemed. . My arm was con- 
foundedly painful, but not so painful as the 
thought which suddenly discoloured my 
sanguine expectations. If Coadic had come 
to my room to remove the gems, was it likely 
that he had left them behind after choking 
me into unconsciousness? Without doubt 
they were lying in the same place where they 
had been concealed before — some hole in a 
wall or a tree for which, lacking a definite 
clue, one might search vainly for twenty 
years ! 

I tapped the posts of the bed. They 
were solid as the walls of the room. I found 
cobwebs between the top and the ceiling. 
Finally, with my head and arm throbbing, I 
crawled back between the sheets. 

Gaston came in early, solicitous about my 
welfare, profoundly regretful that my arm 
had kept me awake. 

" Your confounded gems kept me awake," 
I replied. " I suppose you don't know 
where your uncle hid them ? " 

" Certainly ; in the coffer which we found 
in the well. I showed it to you." 

" But where did he keep the coffer ? " 

" In his bed, poor man." 

"In that bed?" 

" Of course." 

"Where? Where?" 

"He had a cunningly -devised , mattress. 
That's what deceived the police. Epine was 
certain that the thief had heard of this 
hiding-place, probably from the mechanic 
who designed it, who, on inquiry, was found 
to be a vauricn." 

" For Heaven's sake show me the place at 

Gaston smiled derisively. Then he turned 




back bolster and sheet, and the mattress 
beneath them. The lower mattress was 
exposed, lying like a square box full of 
springs, and well padded on the top with 
horse-hair. Gaston touched a button, which 
released a catch. Just where my head had 
lain there was a cunningly- contrived hiding- 

In it, with not a gem missing, lay the 
famous Trevignon collection. 

Not till a year later did we learn the truth, 
although we divined much of it I was 
staying with Gaston and his delightful wife, 
when Coadic, long regarded as a harmless 
imbecile, met with a serious accident in the 
asylum where he was confined, He fell 
down some steps and was stunned. When 
he recovered consciousness, to the doctor's 
amazement It was evident that he had 
recovered also his memory. Before he died 
he made full confession to a priest, and also 
to the authorities. He did not murder his 
master. He knew that the gems would be 
sold when that master died, and determined 
to steal them. As I had guessed, he con- 
cealed himself in the room, stole the gems, 
escaped by the window, flung away the coffer, 
hid the gems in the garden, and regained 
his own room. It will never be known 
whether the marquis discovered the theft. 
He was found dead, hence his servant's sub- 
sequent remorse and grief, Coadic told 
the priest that he believed he had killed 
his master The shock of finding his 
gems stolen had been too sudden for an 
ofd and enfeebled man. Later, Coadic 
replaced the gems in their original hiding- 
place, ro which, as has been said, he alone 
had access. Hence his distress at my occupy- 
ing the room. At the last moment, it seems, 

he had been confronted with the possibility 
of Gaston showing rue the hiding place, He 
had gone to my room to remove the gems, 
counting upon my retiring kte rather than 
early. My step in the stone corridor had 
driven him to hide under the bed. He 
heard me lock the door, and knew that his 
escape was cut off. He also had the satis- 
faction of knowing that the gems were not 
disturbed. As soon as he was sure I was 
asleep he had crept from under the bed, 
thereby arousing me. He told the doctor 
that he meant to escape by the window, but 
ha was arrested by the sight of the emerald 
shining in the moonlight. Then followed 
his detection and the struggle. After chok- 
ing me into insensibility he escaped with the 
gems, leaving his cap behind him. He 
retrieved the cap while I was in the bath- 
room, and, hoodwinked by my declared in- 
tention of leaving the chateau, had replaced 
the gems. 

M But how did he get possession of the 
skull-cap ?" asked Mme, de Trevignon, 

" I gave him what was left of my uncle's 
wardrobfc— not much." 

Madame glanced at my emerald ring, which 
I had presented to her on her marriage. 

" If it hadn't been for this/' she murmured, 
H I shouldn't be sitting here." 

£i 1 don't know about that," said Gaston. 
" My one-man exhibition in London would 
have made me famous, perhaps, and — 

11 Of course it would," said the wise wife. 

And, between ourselves, the good fellow 
is assured that the finding of the gems 
wrecked his artistic career, He never 
touches a brush now, and, next year, I have 
promised to paint the portrait of his son and 
heir — a handsome urchin of five. 

by Google 

Original from 

Auction. Bridge. 


Author of " Auction Bridge" etc., etc. 

HE game of auction bridge is 
creating a considerable flutter 
in the card-playing world at 
the present time. Nearly every- 
one is interested in it to a 
greater or less degree. Some 
bridge-players have declared strongly for it ; 
others will have none of it ; and others, 
again, are temporizing with it, asking ques- 
tions about it, trying experiments with it, 
and playing round it, so to speak, before they 
definitely make up their minds 

Auction bridge bears very much the same 
relation to ordinary bridge as bridge does to 
whist. It is a lighter and a brighter game, 
with less technical skill in it, but more scope 
for individual enterprise as against stereo- 
typed systems of play. 

As some of my readers may never have 
seen the game played, I had better begin by 
describing it. It is played on bridge lines. 
The value of the suits in declaring is the 
same ; and the play of the cards, when the 
bidding for the declaration is over, is pre- 
cisely the same. The real difference lies in 
the declaration. This is not confined to the 
dealer and his partner, as at ordinary bridge, 
but every player in turn has the right of 
overcalling any previous declaration which 
has been made, and the one who makes the 
highest call assumes the position of dealer, 
and plays the two hands, his partner's and 
his own, against the two adversaries. 

The dealer is obliged to open the pro- 
ceedings with a call of some kind. He has 
no option of passing. He, and he only, is 
obliged to declare something. The other 
players, in their turn, can either pass, or 
overcall, or double, and the dealer, when it 
comes to his turn again, has the same right 
The bidding is not confined to the first 
round. It goes round and round, until 
every player has declared himself satisfied. 
Then the play of the hand commences. 
The highest bidder assumes the position of 
dealer for the time being, the player on his 
left leads to the first trick, and his partner's 
hand goes down on the table as dummy. 

The amount required to win the game — 30 
points below the line— is the same as at 
bridge, but the method of scoring is quite 

Digitized by V^iOOQ lC 

different. The points added for winning the 
rubber are 250 instead of 100. When the 
highest bidder — hereafter called the "de- 
clarer" — fulfils his contract by winning the 
number of tricks which he declared to win, or 
more, he scores exactly as at ordinary bridge ; 
but when he fails to win the declared number, 
neither he nor his opponents score anything 
below the line, but his opponents score 50 
points above the line for every trick under 
the contract, and this 50 points is a fixed 
amount (unless doubled), whatever the value 
of the declaration may have been, whether it 
was spades or " No trumps." In no case can 
the declarer lose anything below the line on 
his own declaration. 

The declaration is not limited to naming 
the trump suit. The number of tricks to be 
won must be declared. The form of declara- 
tion is "One spade," "Two clubs," "Three 
no trumps," etc. A declaration of two tricks, 
such as "Two diamonds," means that the 
declarer undertakes to win two odd tricks, or 
eight tricks in all, with diamonds as trumps. 
A declaration of two tricks takes precedence 
of a declaration of one trick if the value is 
the same. Thus, "Two clubs" is a higher 
call than "One heart," and "Two diamonds" 
is higher than " One no trump." 

The method of declaring will be better 
understood by giving an example. A B are 
partners against Y Z. A deals : — 

Hearts— Ace, 5. 

Diamonds — Ace, knAve, 9, 5, 2. 

Clubs — Queen, 7, 3. 

Spades — 10, 9, 3. 

Hearts— Knave, 9, 7, 3. 
Diamonds— io 2 7, 3. 
Clubs— Ace, king, 5. 
Spades— King, 6, 5. 

Hearts — King, queen, 

8, 6, 1. 
Diamonds — Queen, 6. 
Clubs — Knave, 9, 2. 
Spades — 8, 7, 4. 

Hearts— io, 4. 

Diamonds — King, 8, 4. 

Clubs— 10, 8, 6, 4. 

Spades — Ace, queen, knave, 2. 

A. One spade. Y. Pass. B. One diamond. Z. One heart. 
A. Two diamonds. Y. Two hearts. B. Pass. Z. Pass, 
A. Pass. 

The final declaration is "Two hearts." Z 
plays the hand, A leads to the first trick, Y's 
hand goes down on the table, and Y Z have 
undertaken to win eight tricks with hearts as 
trumps. c§t,j^,i'l be noted that Z plays the 

Ml I I '.' I 1 1 




band, although his partner Y made the final 
declaration. This is because Z made the 
first call in hearts. It is always the first 
caller of the accepted suit, not necessarily 
the final caller, who plays the two hands. In 
this case Y has only backed up his partner's 
call Z was the original heart caller, and, 
therefore, if the heart suit is accepted, Z 
becomes the player of the two combined 
Take another instance : — 

Hearts — King t knave, 3. 
. Diamonds— King, queen, 8, 6, 2. 
* Clubs— 5. 

Spades — King, 20, 9, 6. 

Hearts — 7. 
Diamonds — Ace, 10, 

9. 4- 
Gobs — Queen, 10, 7, 3. 
Spades— Ace, 7, 5, 3. 

Hearts — Ace, queen, 4, 


Diamonds — Knave. 
Clubs — Ace, king, 9, 6, 

Spades — Queen, knave, 


Hearts— 10, 9, 8, 6, 5. 

Diamonds — 7, 5, 3. 

Clubs — Knave, 8, 4. 

Spades— 8, 2. 
A. One spade. Y. Pass. B. One diamond. Z. One no trump. 
A- Pass. Y. Pass. B. Two diamonds. Z. Pass. 
A. Pa&s. Y. " 1 double two diamonds." B, Z, and A. Pass. 

This hand occurred quite recently, and the 
bidding was as quoted above. Z declared 
" One no trump " over B's call of " One 
diamond," in order to bid him up ; but, when 
B called u Two diamonds," Z dared not call 
** Two no trumps," as he had no protection 
in the diamond suit Y, however, was in a 
different position. He could have called 
" Two no trumps " with safety, if he had 
wished to, but, knowing that his partner had 
a " No trump " hand, he could see that B had 
no possible chance of winning eight tricks 
with diamonds as trumps, and therefore he 
doubled the "Two diamonds" call. The 
result of the hand was that B only made four 
tricks, and Y Z scored 400 points above the 
line. B had contracted to win eight tricks, 
but he only won four, leaving him four tricks 
under his contract, which entailed a loss of 
200 points, 50 points per trick, or, as the 
declaration was doubled, 100 points per trick, 
amounting to 400 in all. 

A special feature of auction bridge, and 
rather a novel feature, is that it will nearly 
always pay you better to defeat your oppo- 
nents' call than to score yourself. The hand 
quoted above is an instance of this. Y was 
quite strong enough to have supported his 
partner by declaring " Two no trumps," and 
he and his partner would have won the game 
if he had done so, but he preferred the prac- 
tical certainty of winning several hundred 
points above the line by doubling his oppo- 
nent's call of •' Two diamonds," and he was 

quite right. Djgiljzedby G00gk 

That is the true spirit of auction bridge, 
and the real ultimate aim and object of the 
bidding for the declaration — to try to bid 
your opponents up to a point at which they 
will be extremely unlikely to be able to fulfil 
their contract, and then to double them and 
to score heavily above the line. This may 
not be a nice spirit — it may not be a generous 
spirit — it may not commend itself to the 
mind of the kindly and courteous card-player, 
ever considerate for the feelings of his adver- 
saries, but it is auction bridge all the same. 
I do not mean to imply that you should 
always, invariably, go for defeating your 
opponents in preference to scoring yourself. 
I do not say that the chance of getting your 
opponents one trick under their contract is 
to be preferred to an equal chance of win- 
ning the game yourself. 

Your ambition is, of course, to win the 
rubber sooner or later, and in order to do 
that you must win two games. Your first 
objective should be to make the declaration 
which is the most likely to enable you to 
score below the line— to win the game if 
possible, but, anyhow, to score something. 
It is later on, when the bidding has been 
considerably advanced, and when you can 
see that your opponents, in their anxiety to 
prevent you winning the game, have under- 
taken more than they will be able to per- 
form, that the position alters. The question 
then arises whether it will not pay you 
better to double their declaration than to 
make a higher bid yourself. This is the 
most delicate point in the whole game, 
and involves a very careful and nice weighing 
up of the chances pro and con. My own 
idea is that, when you can see a strong pro- 
bability of getting your opponents at least 
two tricks under their contract, you should 
always go for that chance, even though there 
is an equal, or greater, probability of winning 
the game yourself on a further call. There 
is yet another side to the question. Your 
opponents are playing the same game as you 
are, and they are equally on the look-out to 
defeat you. It may happen that your further 
call, instead of winning the game, will result 
in failure, and then you will be sorry that you 
did not adopt the other, and better, policy. 

By far the greater part of the profit 
made by the successful auction bridge- 
player is derived from his opponents' failures. 
That is what I want to emphasize most 
strongly. One player will win a rubber on 
two good hands, and will win about 400 
points, while another player, with the same 
hands, will very likely score as much as that 




on one hand alone, by concealing his strength 
and doubling his opponents' declaration. * 

It is only right to say that this principle, 
strongly as I believe in it myself, is not 
universally accepted. Some players, especially 
experienced bridge-players, refuse to accept 
it altogether. They always play to win the 
game as quickly as possible, without thinking 
about possible increments above the line. 
They are very fond of quoting the ancient 
proverb which saith: — 

A bird in hand is better far 
Than two that in the bushes are. 

This proverb may be quite sound, but does 
it not take for granted that the respective 
birds are of equal value ? I imagine that no 
one will attempt to argue that one sparrow in 
hand is worth more than two golden pheasants 
in the bush. In the same way the possible 
gain by defeating your adversaries is so much 
greater than the possible gain from scoring 
yourself that the proverb does not apply. 
The loss of 50 points per trick entailed by 
failure is really out of all just proportion to 
the 6, or 8, or 12 points per trick gained 
by success, and that is why auction bridge 
must be played on such different lines to 
ordinary bridge, where the result of success 
or failure is of the same value. 

Auction bridge is essentially a game of 
declaration. Skilful play of the cards is 
valuable, inasmuch as it will enable a player 
to make the most of the materials at his dis- 
posal, but it is on the judgment brought to 
bear in bidding for the declaration that the 
result of the rubber will generally depend. 
There are times when a player ought to 
declare above the value of his hand, and there 
are times when he ought to declare below it. 
The objects with which it is right for him to 
declare above the value of his hand are, 
firstly, to raise his opponents' call, and, 
secondly, to prevent their winning the game, 
or, still more strongly, the rubber, on a 
declaration which they have already made. 
The time when he should declare below the 
value of his hand is when he thinks that his 
opponents have undertaken a bigger task 
than they are likely to be able to perform. 

The dealer has to make the first call. His 
best call is generally u One spade." In the 
early days of the game this opening call was 
almost universal, and there was a convention 
which made it incumbent upon the dealer's 
partner to take him out of the " One spade " 
call by declaring " Two spades " if his hand 
did not admit of any higher call. A new 
rule has now been introduced (law 51) 
limiting the loss on a declaration of "One 

Digitized by LiOOgJC 

spade" to 100 points, whether doubled or 
not This has altered the position altogether. 
The " Two spades " convention no longer 
exists unless previously arranged, but I 
strongly advise every player, before com- 
mencing a rubber, to have a clear under- 
standing with his partner that this convention 
shall be strictly adhered to. It is rarely 
advisable for the dealer to disclose the full 
strength of his hand on his first call, and the 
better his hand the more it behoves him to 
lie low and to conceal his strength. The 
tentative "One spade" call is generally his 
best opening, but there are exceptions. 
When he has great strength in either black 
suit, headed by ace, king, or by ace, queen, 
knave, or by king, queen, knave, and little or 
nothing else of value, he should declare 
" Two spades," or " Two clubs," as a direct 
invitation to his partner to declare " No 
trumps." This is a very useful call, but it 
is essential that the caller should have the 
virtual command of the suit, otherwise it 
may be very misleading. The call of " Two 
spades " should never be made on numerical 
strength without commanding cards at the 
head of the suit. Auction bridge is a game 
of aces and kings, not of numerical strength. 
The information which will be of use to your 
partner is that you command a suit, not that 
you have five or six small cards in it. 

The best declaration of all for the dealer, 
if he has any sort of pretension to make it, 
is " One no trump." It has so many advan- 
tages. It cuts away the ground from under 
the opponents' feet, by preventing their 
declaring " No trumps." It precludes them 
from showing one another their strength in 
the black suits. It forces them at once into 
a two-trick declaration in either red suit. 
And, above all, it puts a righteous fear into 
their hearts, as they cannot tell whether it is 
a thoroughly sound call or a very weak one. 
This call of " One no trump " threatens to 
become a serious danger to the success of 
auction bridge. The value of it is now so 
thoroughly realized that it becomes a sort of 
race as to which side can call it first. The 
Bath Club had a rule of their own that the 
declarer of " One no trump" was penalized 
an extra 50 points if he failed to fulfil his 
contract. This rule was not accepted by 
the joint committee, but it seems extremely 
probable that it will have to be introduced in 
the near future. The fact of the matter is 
that the game would be a much better one if 
the " No trump " call was eliminated alto- 
gether. Here is the sort of hand on which 
the dealer will dedare " One no trump " : — 




Hearts— 8, 3. 

Diamonds — King, 9, 4. 

Clubs — Knave, 10, 6, 2. 

Spades— Ace, 9, -8, 3. 
It is not a " No trump " hand at all, in the 
bridge acceptance of a " No trump " hand, but 
it serves its purpose as an opening call at 
auction bridge. If either of the opponents 
declares two tricks in a red suit, the dealer 
simply retires from the contest, and there is 
no harm done ; on the contrary, the oppo- 
nents have been forced into a two-trick call 
If the dealer's partner has a very bad hand, 
the " No trump " call may break down badly ; 
but, if the partner's hand is bad, the oppo- 
nents' hands will be correspondingly good, 
and one of them is almost certain to overcall 
the "No trump." A one-trick call is very 
rarely doubled. 

The second player's policy is quite different 
to the dealer's. The second player is not 
obliged to call anything, and he should be very 
chary of taking his opponent out of a black- 
suit calL It must always be remembered that 
the declarer of a black suit is laying enormous 
odds on himself. With a spade declaration 
he is laying 25 to 1, with a club declaration 
he is laying 12}^ to 1, and these are very 
heavy odds. The second player should 
nearly always pass a black-suit call, unless he 
has a practical certainty of a good score on 
his own hand, and, even then, he should 
think twice about it Why in the world 
some players are so ready to relieve their 
adversaries of the responsibility attending a 
black -suit call passes my comprehension 
altogether. If the adversaries are able to 
amend their call, the second player comes in 
again, and can then say what be wants to. 
If they are not able to do so, they are left in 
the unenviable position of risking a great deal 
to win practically nothing. 

The position of third player is the most 
important of all. The onus of opening the 
real conversation of the bidding devolves 
upon him in the majority of cases. If the 
call of "One spade" comes up to him, he 
should consider himself morally bound to 
take his partner out of it ; either by making 
a higher call, or, if he is not strong enough 
to do that, by calling " Two spades." 

Leaving the declaration at "One spade," 
notwithstanding the limit of 100 points, is 
just as faint-hearted a policy as the defensive 
spade declaration by the dealer at ordinary 

If the third player has any other suit of 

(our cards or more, headed by ace, king, 

or by ace, queen, or by king, queen, he 

should declare one trick in that in preference 

Digitized by ^OOglC 

to "Two spades," but he should never declare 
one trick in a suit because he has numerical 
strength in it, without commanding cards at 
the head of it. To do so is to wilfully 
deceive his partner. Let me say again — it 
cannot be repeated too often — that auction 
bridge is a game of aces and kings, not of 
numerical strength. 

When the dealer has opened with "One 
no trump," the third player should always 
overcall him with two tricks in a red suit, 
if he has pronounced strength in it. This is 
not taking the call away from his partner. 
The dealer can still declare " Two no trumps " 
if he wishes to do so. The third player 
merely tells his partner that he cannot afford 
general assistance to a " No trump " call, but 
that he has one good suit Take such a hand 
as : — 

Hearts — Knave, 4. 

Diamonds — King, queen, 10, 7, 5, 2. 

Clubs— Queen, 9, 5. 

Spades — 8, 6. 
With this hand the third player should not 
hesitate to declare "Two diamonds" over 
his partner's original call of "One no 
trump." If the " No trump " is a good one, 
the dealer will call "Two no trumps," and 
the game will be won. If, as frequently 
occurs, the original call was a defensive one, 
the dealer will be only too pleased to avail 
himself of the alternative. The " No trump " 
call is a strong weapon in the hands of the 
third player. If he has the smallest nucleus 
of a justifiable " No trump" he should call it 
at once. It has just the same advantages for 
him as it has for the dealer. His opponents 
will not know how good or how poor it is, 
and, although they may overbid it, they are 
very unlikely to double it. If they overbid 
it they have to do so witji a two-trick call, 
and that is, at any rate, something gained. 

The policy of the fourth player is very 
much the same as that of the second player. 
If his opponents are in with a call of " Two 
spades," laying 25 to 1 on themselves, he 
should leave them there, or double if he is 
strong enough, and let them work out their 
own salvation if they can. The dealer will 
be forced to make some other declaration in 
order to get out of his trouble, and then the 
fourth player will be in a fine position, either 
to double the forced call or to overcall it. He 
can gain nothing by being in a hurry to show 
his own suit, as he will be able to do that 
just as well later on, on the next round of the 
call. It is only occasionally that the dealer 
and his partner are caught with such bad 
hands that neither of them can make an 
attacking declaration, but it does happen 




occasionally, and when it does happen one 
or other of the opponents generally blunders 
in and saves them from a loss of 300 or 400 
points, by making a premature declaration on 
his own hand. 

Judicious doubling is a very interesting 
and a very important feature of auction 
bridge. The conditions of doubling are 
quite different to those of ordinary bridge. 
When a declaration at ordinary bridge is 
doubled, the declarer has no possible means 
of escape— he is obliged to abide by his 
original declaration. At auction bridge this 
is not the case. Either the declarer or his 
partner can slip out of the difficulty by 
switching to another call of higher value, and 
they invariably do so if they are doubled too 
soon. The time to double the opponents' 
call is when you are also prepared to double 
any higher call, or when the bidding has got up 
so high that they will not be able to switch. 

At ordinary bridge it is absolutely necessary 
to hold considerable strength in the declared 
suit in order to double with any reasonable 
hope of success. At auction bridge, when 
the bidding has run very high, this is not 
necessary. When the bidding has been 
forced up to three or four tricks in hearts or 
diamonds, it is the high cards in the other 
suits which are going to turn the scale. The 
declarer has undoubtedly got the command 
of the trump suit, but he is very unlikely to 
hold nine or ten trumps. He has probably 
got six, or possibly seven, and he has to pick 
up two or three outside tricks. If you com- 
mand all the other suits, you can safely 
double a three or four trick declaration 
without any protection in trumps at all. 
The following hand recently occurred : — 

Hearts— 10. 

Diamonds — King, queen, 10, 9, 8, 5. 

Clubs— 9, 7, 4. 

Spades— Queen, 8, 5. 

Hearts — King, 8, 3. 
Diamonds — 6, 3, 2. 
Clubs — Ace, king, 10. 
Spades — King, knave, 
9. 2- 


» Hearts— Acr, knave, 9, 

7, 6, 5, 4, 2. 


Z j Diamonds — 7. 
1 Cluhs— 6, 5, 3. 
I Spades — 3, 

Hearts — Queen. 
Diamonds— Ace, knave, 4. 
Clubs — Queen, knave, 8, 2. 
Spades— Ace, 10, 7, 6, 4. 

The score was : A B, 18 ; Y Z, o. A dealt. 
A. One no trump. Y. Pass. B. Two. diamonds. Z. Two hearts. 
A. Pass. Y. Pass. B. Three diamonds. Z. Three hearts, 
A. Four diamonds. Y. " Double four diamonds. ' B, Z, and 
A. Pass. 

In this case Y doubled " Four diamonds " 
with no sort of protection in. the trump suit 
at all, but B would have to hold eight or 
nine trumps in order to win four by cards, 
and there was no chance of that being the 
case, as A had made the " Four diamonds " 

Digitized by dOOgJC 

call. As the hand was played, the declarer 
won seven tricks only, instead of ten, and 
Y Z scored 300 points above the line. The 
first three tricks were : — 

Trick i. I Trick 2. 

B J B 

(declarer) ( declarer ) 


Tricks: A B, o ; YZ, 1. 

Tricks : AB.o; Y Z, 2. 

Trick 3. 


4 ♦ 


* * 

♦ ♦ 

Tricks : A B, o ; Y Z, 3. 

B played very badly in not putting up the 
ace of spades at trick 2, as Z's lead was 
almost certainly a singleton. 

It is rarely right to double a one-trick 
declaration, except with the object of indi- 
cating strength to one's partner. An original 
declaration of " One spade " or " One club " 
is sometimes doubled by the second player 
when he is very strong in the declared suit. 
This amounts to an invitation to his partner 
to declare " No trumps," and has just the same 
meaning as the original "Two spades" or 
" Twp clubs " declaration by the dealer. It 
is sometimes very tempting to double a " One 
heart ; or a " One diamond " declaration, when 
one is lying over the declarer with great 
strength in the suit, and it may occasionally 
pay to do so ; but as a general rule it does 
not pay. The declarer or his partner will at 
once shift out of the danger zone by making 
some other declaration. The best plan is to 
try to bid them up to two tricks in the suit, 
in which case you can double them with a 
much better chance of success. If you are 
not strong enough to bid them up, then 
simply sit tight, and be content with defeating 
them on their one-trick declaration undoubled. 

I hope that the foregoing account of the 
game is clear enough to enable my readers 
to give it a trial, even though they may never 
have heard of it before. 


iss Pauline 
Chase, who 
will be remembered 
as one of the Twins 
in the original pro- 
duction of " Peter 
Pan/ 1 is this Christmas playing 
for the third year in succes- 
sion the title-role in Mr. 
Bame's delightful fairy play. As " The Boy 
Who Wouldn't Grow Up n she acts with a 
naturalness and charm which captivates both 
young and old— indeed, to many youthful 
playgoers she is Peter Pan, If anyone has a 
doubt as to her hold on the imagination of 
the audience, let them watch the effect of 
her appeal for applause to save the life of 
Tinker Bell. 

Miss Lily Elsie, the delightful Sonia of 
"The Merry Widow," has achieved her won- 
derful success at a very early age + Though she 
had played in "A Chinese Honeymoon" 
for nearly the whole of its long run, and in 
one or two other musical comedies, it was 
with something of a surprise that the play- 
going public heard of her selection for the 
principal part in the famous Austrian musical 
play. She was appearing in " See See," on 
tour r when Mr, George Ed ward es called her 
back to London, sent her off post-haste to 
Vienna to see the original production, and 
there and then offered her the part. The 
result is now theatrical history. 

Miss Ethel Irving is without doubt one 
of the most interesting personalities on the 
stage to day. She had made for herself in 
musical comedy a reputation for clever and 
original work, when her appearance in old 
English comedy showed that she was capable 
of still better work. So, following in the 
footsteps of Miss Marie Tempest, the path 
of musical comedy was forsaken for that 
of comedy without music. Many successes 
have been her reward, and at present, in 
* l [Jolly Reforming Herself," she has a part 
which shows her gift for comedy to great 
advantage, and at the same time gives her, 
in the great battle of tongues over Dolly's 
bills, an opportunity for a piece of really 
powerful acting- 

VoL xxTvil— 10l 

Miss Winifred Emery {Mrs, 
Cyril Maude) has a part in 
11 The Flag Lieutenant " by no 
means worthy of her talents, though the 
charm with which she invests it adds con- 
siderably to the enjoyment of one of the 
greatest successes of the theatrical season. 
It will be remembered that Mr, Cyril Maude 
was recently commanded to Sandringham to 
give a performance of this play of naval life. 
The King, it is said, was much amused by 
the scene in which the Flag Lieutenant an- 
nounces to the Admiral, "Birthday honours, 
sir." u Read them out," says the Admiral. 
Lieutenant I,ascelles does so, beginning with 
the newly-created P.Cs. " Oh, never mind 
those/ 5 replies the Admiral ; "what has the 
Navy got ? ?> " Got left, as usual," is the 
Lieutenant's reply, greeted with a roar of 

Miss Ruth Vincent made her stage dibut 
at the Savoy, and her career since then is 
known to all music-lovers. Though there 
are many who regret her disappearance 
from the home of the Gilbert and Sullivan 
operas a what is the Savoy's loss is the gain 
of musical comedy. In "The Belle of 
Brittany M she sings some very effective songs 
with that clear enunciation which is a delight 
to the ear and a reminder of the excellence 
of her early Savoy training* 

Miss Gracie Leigh is the embodiment 
of good spirits and sly humour. Who can 
recall without a chuckle of delight her singing 
of the amusing tl Petticoat song" in "Miss 
Hook of Holland"? In "The King of 
Cndonia " she is very happily placed, though 
the part is not, (jerhaps, quite so well 
supplied with opportunities for her peculiar 
humour as some she has played. 

Mrss Irene Vanbrix;h's performance 
in Mr Sutros new play, "The Builder of 
Bridges," in which she realizes so successfully 
a most difficult and complex character, is 
worthy to be ranked with the best in her 
gallery of theatrical portraits. Few other 
English actresses can convey quite so well 
as Miss Van brugh the impression of despair 
and mental anguish, or range from grave to 



Original from 





by Google 

Original from 









by Google 







En a scene from 
The Builder of Bridges," 
PltQiv* lUntfralkmi Burtnv* 

^1"^ Original from 




ERSONS with a choice of 
several names are not com- 
mon outside the peerage ; but 
some of them — wholly uncon- 
nected with any peer — are to 
be discovered in London 
crowds, though discovery is not what they 
are there for. Crowds, in fact, attract them, 
from the circumstance that, whatever the 
number of individuals in a crowd, there 
are sure to be several times that number of 
pockets, mostly with something in them ; 
and a pickpocket who has once been 
convicted finds a change of name a wise 
precaution. So we arrive at Johnson. 

It chanced that Johnson stood in quite a 
small crowd — perhaps of twenty — that stared 
at a shop-window in Oxford Street. He had 
only been Johnson for a week, poor fellow, 
since emerging from some months' retirement, 
and as yet the name did not sit easily. He 
had to keep it continually in mind, lest in 
some unforeseen emergency he might call 
himself Jones, or Barker, or Jenkinson, any 
one of which was dangerous, and had been 
discarded in its turn for that reason ; always 
after just such another holiday as that he had 
lately disenjoyed. 

Johnson was a mild person — not at all the 
sort of man whom one might suppose to be 
a pickpocket — which was fortunate, of course, 
for Johnson. He was a meek, rather timid 
body, whose tastes would have been domestic 
if he had been a family man ; and he would 
have been a family man if it were not for the 
expense. He was temperate, thrifty, and 
inoffensive ; he shrank with horror from the 
idea of anything violent, such as burglary or 
work ; he had no vices, no particular abilities, 
and only one small talent : he could pick a 
pocket very well indeed. Altogether, Johnson 
*as an unusually virtuous thief. 

He stood in a small crowd in Oxford Street, 
as I have said, and while the small crowd 
stared at the shop-window because of some new 
idea of the shopkeeper's, Johnson considered 
pockets according to ideas of his own ; having 
a natural human preference for the easiest 
pocket in the most sumptuous habiliment. 
He felt himself much drawn toward a man 
in an " immensikoff" — a fur-lined overcoat 
— which was quite the most magnificent 

VoL xxxviL— ft. Copyright, 1908, by 

garment in the crowd. The large side-pocket 
of the " immensikoff" gaped invitingly, and, 
though outside overcoat-pockets were barren 
vessels as a rule, this was so very easy that 
nothing could be lost by trial. So Johnson 
placed himself against the pocket and tried, 
with unexpected success. 

For, indeed, at the bottom of that pocket 
reposed a purse — not at all what one might 
expect to find there. In an instant that 
purse was transferred to the outside pocket, 
so closely adjacent, of Johnson's light over- 
coat ; and then Johnson paused for a moment, 
ostentatiously scratching his cheek with the 
guilty hand and staring with rapt eyes at the 
window ; till he judged it expedient to edge 
gently away and evaporate from the little 

He strolled easily to the next turning, 
turned up it with quicker steps, and so into 
a quieter cross street. Here he paused, 
plunged his hand into his side-pocket, and — 
found it empty. 

His chin fell and he stdod amazed. There 
was no doubt of it — this as the pocket into 
which he had dropped the purse, and now 
there was nothing there. He felt in the 
opposite pocket — needlessly, for he clearly 
remembered working with his right hand, 
and with his right side-pocket against the left 
pocket of the "immensikoff." There was 
nothing now in either of his side-pockets, 
though he raked them through with anxious 
fingers. And then everything inside him 
jumped at the sudden touch of a hand or 
his shoulder. He shrank and turned, and 
found himself confronted by the man in the 
fur-lined coat. 

The man was grinning at him with sardonic 
politeness, and Johnson did not like him at 
all. He was tall and broad and dark, while 
Johnson was small and narrow and pale. 
The stranger's black moustache was waxed 
into long spikes, which pointed toward the 
outer edges of the flat brim of a very tail hat, 
and gave a touch of the unearthly to his 
grin ; and in his hand he extended toward 
Johnson a metal box — Johnson's own 
tobacco-box, in truth, which he now remem- 
bered to have left in that same side coat- 

" H mf?JtSl^^ stranger. 

Arthur Monison. I T F MICH IG A N 



"Were you feeling in your pocket for 
this ? " 

Johnson's panic impulse was to deny his 
tobacco-box utterly, but the stranger's black 
eyes were piercing his very brain, and he felt 
it useless, He took the box that was forced 
on him j and gasped unintelligible acknowledg- 
ments. He meant to say he was extremely 
obliged, and didn't know he had dropped it ; 
but he never remembered what he did say. 

" / believe some sneaking thief picked your 
pocket/' said the stranger, his grin growing 
fiercer, " Open it and see if anything' s 

Johnson began a mumble that it was all 
right and of no consequence and didn't 
matter, but the eyes and the satanic grin 
compelled him, and he sprang the lid. 
Instantly there arose from within a gigantic 
creature with horns, which ran across his 
hand on horrid clawed legs and made for his 
sleeve, Johnson squeaked like a rat, and 
flung box and insect to the ground together. 
He had a feminine horror of crawling things, 
and had never s^en a stag-beetle before. 
The stranger snatched the box as it fell, 

and, brushing 
roughly against 
Johnson, skil- 
fully scooped 
up the insect 
from the pave- 





•* What ? " he said. <c Do you mean to say 
it wasn't yours at all ? And yet you wanted 
to take it? Is there anything else in those 
pockets of yours that doesn't belong to you? 
Show me ! ,T 

M No, sir ! Nothing at all, sir, upon my 
solemn davy!" wailed Johnson, in terror 
For the eye* and the grin were fiercer than 
ever. " Nothing at all, sir ! ty protested John- 
son, pulling out the pocket-linings. And 
there, as the right-hand pocket came inside 
out j emerged the stranger's purse ! 

"Liarl" cried the dark man. "Thief! 
That is my purse ! * 

He snatched it away and opened it, while 
Johnson stood helpless in amazement, with 
his pockets protruding on each side, 

" See ! " pursued the stranger, thrusting the 
open purse under his nose. "My purse, 
with my money in it I What about that ? " 

Instinct brought a jumbled defence to 
Johnson's lips, " Quite a mistake— wouldn't 
think of such a thing, being a gentleman 
himself Accident that might happen to 
anybody — a lot of trouble in the family 
lately " — and so on. 

" What's your name ? " snapped the 
stranger. It disconcerted Johnson more 
than anything else to see that this fiendish 
person was grinning more than ever t while 
his unavoidable eyes seemed to divine more 
about Johnson than even Johnson ever knew. 
" What's your name ? " he demanded. 

" Jones I " spluttered the thief, in a 
panic* " Barker ! — -no, Jenkins on — I 
mean Johnson ! " 

Cl Oh, I see/' the stranger replied ; 
and now his moustache and his grin 
chased each other to the very tips of 
his ears. " I see ; Jones, a/ias Barker, 
alias Jenkinson, and at present John- 
son. Last conviction under the name 
of Jenkinson, eh ?" 

11 'T wasn't exactly a conviction, sir t 
I assure you," protested the 
sweating pickpocket. " The 
judge's mistake entirely — quite a 
misunderstanding j and the com- 
monest watch you ever see ; not 
worth a bob ! " 

*' And what did you get ? A 

" No, sir — nothing of the kind- 
It's a wicked slander, sir, when 
anybody says it was a year. Not 
a day more than nine months, 
I give you my solemn word ! " 

11 After i <Jo;^n previous convictions ? * 

UNlVflfcifreftyft w&lr r slander ; an >- 



body as told you that is trying to take my 
character away. There wasn't more than 
seven, sir, or eight at the very most It's 'ard 
to be scandalized like that, sir ! " 

" Shocking ! " The stranger had slipped 
his purse away and now had his hand on 
Johnson's shoulder, with finger and thumb 
taking a good nip of his coat-collar. " Only 
seven or eight convictions ! Poor chap ; you 
shall have another at once. Come along ! " 

11 No, indeed, sir — let me alone ! On my 
solemn davy, sir, it was all a mistake ! I 
dunno how the purse got there ! " And it 
surprised Johnson to find himself offering an 
excuse with such a deal of truth in it. 

The stranger's grin relaxed a little, and his 
voice grew more business-like. "Very well," 
he said. " Come with me for an hour and I 
won't charge you. But don't you displease 
me, my virtuous friend ! " The grin flickered 
up again. "Don't you displease me, or 
youll go back, to as long a dose of jail as I 
can get for you, mind that ! You shall buy 
your release on my terms. Come along ; but 
first stuff those pockets in again." 

Johnson obeyed, and walked by the side 
of his persecutor in a maze of sickening 
bewilderment Could he be really awake ? 
The whole thing was uncommonly like a 
hideous nightmare, down to the very beetle. 
He had the most distinct recollection of his 
shock of surprise at finding his coat-pockets 
empty ; yet he had put the purse there, and 
there it proved to be after all. The thing 
was the more like a dream because his efforts 
to remember made it all seem like something 
that had occurred a long time ago. And he 
would doubtless have believed it a nightmare 
and made some desperate effort to wake him- 
self were it not for the fact that the gloating 
stranger most palpably had him by the arm 
as they walked through the back streets, 
and now and again put a question of 
such a pungent and penetrating nature that 
demanded all Johnson's waking wits to meet 
it Such wits as Johnson had were barely 
sufficient for the needs of his trade, and now 
they were oppressed by a feeling that he was 
being "got at" in some unfathomable 
manner; for indeed the satanic stranger 
chuckled gaily to himself as the torment 
went on. 

Their way led through numerous back 
streets which Johnson was too disconcerted 
to recognise, even if he knew them, and at 
last they stopped before a very blank and 
secret-looking door in a tall building that had 
no more than two other openings in it and 
those windows, small and high. 

The stranger opened the door with a latch- 
key, never looking jai the key, but always at 
Johnson, with that embarrassing grin un- 
altered, unless it were now a little less fierce 
and a little more whimsical. The door 
revealed nothing but a dark passage, into 
which Johnson was pushed without ceremony. 
The place smelt damp, and on the whole 
strikingly like a cell in a police-station ; a fact 
which gave the prisoner's tenors a more 
definite turn. The door closed behind them 
and left them wholly in the dark; and 
Johnson, seized by the arm, was thrust 
stumbling and staggering along the passage 
till he emerged on a spot only a degree less 
obscure, where nothing was discernible but 
some vast construction of square beams that 
vanished into blackness above. Here the 
stranger paused and, groping in the gloom 
among the beams, flung open another 

"Get in there," he said, "and sit down. I 
sha'n't want you for an hour. You can go to 
sleep if you like." 

Johnson obediently stumbled into the dark 
opening, and the door slartfmed behind him 
with a bang and a sharp click. It was black — 
blacker than ever, but at least he was alone 
for a space, and might collect his faculties. 
He reached about him, and had no difficulty 
in finding the walls of his prison, for in fact 
they were scarce a yard apart in any direction. 
It seemed that he was in a wooden cupboard, 
with a ledge for seat. He sat on the ledge 
and wondered. 

Imprisonment was not wholly a novelty, 
though this was certainly the darkest cell he 
had ever inhabited, and the smallest. There 
was to be an hour's respite, it seemed, but he 
was mighty uneasy as to what would happen 
at the end of the hour. He thought again 
of that horrible beetle, and the clothes tingled 
on his skin at the recollection, till he began 
to rub himself all over. Heavens ! if there 
were more of them in this place ! He 
jumped to his feet, shook himself, and 
stamped, and then bethought him of his 
match-box. He found it and spilt it, stooped 
for it hurriedly, butted his head into one side 
of the cupboard and his opposite end into 
another, and came to the floor in a heap. 

" Now, then, keep quiet in there ! " 

The voice was a strange one— certainly not 
that of the dark man— and it came from — 
where ? Nowhere about him, but apparently 
from somewhere above, though even of this 
he was not certain. Surely there was no 
possibility that he could be watched in this 
unspeakable darkness ! He groped painfully, 
U N I V tn _>l It U r ml L H Ion N 

8 4 


found a match, groped again and found the 
box to strike it on. 

The light was a great relief, for it revealed 
the fact that at least the place was free from 
visible insects. He could see now that his 
cell was wooden — top, bottom, and sides ; 
and then came burned fingers and sudden 
darkness. He lighted another match, and 
satis lied himself that there was no cranny, 
nor even a keyhole, through which peeping 
was possible ; then he lit another to pick 
up those remaining, and another after that, 

lt Now, then ! w came the voice again. 
" Leave off strikin' them matches ! " 

Johnson stopped, bumped his head again, 
and scrambled to his seat. Then he found 
courage to speak. " I say " he began. 

"You stow that row, d'y'ear ? Shut up." 

The prisoner said no more, but waited. 
Strange noises reached his ear from some 
far-away part of the building, and a little 
nearer there were subdued creak ings. He 
began to remember 
stories of mysterious 
rooms that closed up 
and crushed men im- 
prisoned in them ; of 
weighted ceilings that 
fell ; of chambers 
slowly filled with 
poisonous gas. As 
he sat he began to 
tremble; and as the 
minutes passed he felt 
himself growing des- 
perate with fear. He 
wished he had allowed 
himself to be handed 
to the police, for at 
least he knew what that 
meant. But now — 
he could not endure 
much longer. He had 
made up his mind, 
come what might, to 
shout his loudest for 
help; when as he stood 
feeling the hundredth 
time for the door- 
fastening, he was sud- 
denly flung backward and d' 
confusedly realizing that 
cupboard was shooting up 
bodily. Was the thing a 

It stopped with a jerk, 
the prisoner, recovering 
legs, was aware of a loud 
now familiar voice. There was 
a tap on the door, and a click ; 

and instantly it flew open, and Johnson was 
blinded by a flood of light and deafened by 
a roar of sound, 

Hundreds of faces stared at htm from a 
great hall, as many voices shouted a delighted 
greeting, and twice as many hands clapped 
loud applause. The cupboard stood open 
on a brilliantly-lighted stage, and by it stood 
the sardonic stranger in evening dress, with a 
black wand in his hand; while Johnson, 
gasping and dishevelled, blinked and cowered 

"Ladies and gentlemen," cried the con- 
jurer, 4, I have the honour to introduce Mr. 
Johnson, alias Jones, alias Barker, alias 
Jenkinson, the eminent pickpocket You 
will remember that when 1 enclosed the lady 
in the cabinet I promised you quite a new 
and original denouement to the performance 
— something never before attempted, I think 
I have fulfilled my promise. Not only has 
the lady disappeared, but by an extraordinary 


* ^<M-<^ 





application of occult natural forces I have 
brought into her place a pickpocket snatched 
this moment from his nefarious practices in 
Oxford Street. You observe his confusion ? 
What more natural ? But two minutes ago 
his hand was in the pocket of an eminent 
and distinguished gentleman much like my- 
self in appearance, seeking that gentleman's 
purse. In an instant — whist! he finds himself 
placed before you on this stage, half a mile 
off. Ladies and gentlemen, it is just possible 
that some among you suspected the lady 
who disappeared of being a confederate 
of mine ; but I defy any one of you 
to call this man a confederate. Does he 
look like it? Does he look as though he 
came here on purpose ? Has he the calm, 
self-possessed, happy, smiling appearance 
natural to any man who has the good fortune 
to be in my employ ? Look at him. Some 
gentleman who has ever had his pocket 
picked may remember him ; if any of you are 
connected with the police you are sure to 
know him. He has been brought up at half 
the police-courts in London, and has been 
convicted at the Old Bailey and the Sessions 
House over and over again. He has just 
completed nine months' board and residence 
at this country's expense, under the name of 
Jenkinson ; if he hadn't changed his name 
he'd have got more. Are you quite con- 
vinced, ladies and gentlemen, that he is not 
a confederate ? Any test you like to suggest 
will be applied. Is there any lady present 
he has ever robbed who would like to stick a 
bonnet-pin into him ? No ? Don't hesitate — 
you are quite welcome, I assure you. Come, 
now, I wish you would. You see, under the 
Employers' Liability Act I am liable for any 
injury occurring to people I employ, but I 
don't care what happens to this chap. Come, 
now, let me persuade you. Isn't there any 
dear, kind lady present who will oblige me by 
sticking a bonnet-pin into this criminal, just 
to oblige me ? It doesn't matter whether he 
has robbed you or not — / don't mind. He'd 
rob you if he could, you know. Here he is." 
He seized the wretched Johnson by the collar 
and thrust him forward. " I always find 
ladies very obliging," he went on. " Surely 
you won't all be so unkind as to refuse just 
to stick him with a bonnet-pin while I hold 
him ? Just to help me convince the company, 

There were laughs and titters, and the 
conjurer whispered from behind, " All right, 
you fool, they won't do it." Then he pro- 
ceeded, aloud : " You won't ? Not one of 
you? Then I shall have to try something 

else. I'm always glad to introduce a novelty 
into my performances, and I think you'll 
admit that this is the first time a real live 
pickpocket has ever been brought upon the 
stage in this extraordinary manner. Having 
got him here it would be a pity to waste him, 
wouldn't it ? Very well. I will proceed to 
try a little experiment with a view to showing 
how dishonesty would be dealt with in this 
country if I were Prime Minister. Will any 
ladies and gentlemen in the company oblige 
me by the loan of a few small articles 
of value ? A few rings, a watch, a gold 
pencil-case — anything ot that sort, you know. 
I'm sure I sha'n't have to wait long for 
things like that with such a high -class 
audience as this. Come, now — thank you, 
sir ; a ring ; a valuable diamond ring 
from a gentleman in the second row. Yes ? 
Thank you, madam — a locket. A gold 
watch ? I should like a gold watch — and so 
would Mr. Johnson, I am sure. Here it 
comes— thank you, sir. A gold pencil-case — 
two more rings, a chain, and a silver match- 
box; thank you — thank you. I think that 
will do ; we mustn't risk too much on a first 
experiment, you know. Now I should like 
some gentleman from the company to assist 
me by placing these articles in Mr. Johnson's 
pockets, in full sight of the house. Will you, 
sir ? Thank you ; just step up here. Now, 
will you please take the articles one by one 
from the table, and place them separately in 
any of the criminal's pockets you choose. 
Well in sight of the company, mind. Stand 
a little aside — that's it— so that everything 
shall be perfectly clear. I need hardly assure 
you, ladies and gentlemen, that this gentleman 
is no confederate of mine. I do not invite 
you to test it by sticking a bonnet-pin into 
him — he is a good deal bigger than Johnson, 
and it might not be safe. I am sure you 
will accept his word of honour from a gentle- 
man of his size." 

The gentleman approached Johnson and 
followed the conjurer's instructions, and the 
conjurer, from a little way off, reported the 
bestowal of each article aloud. " Gold watch 
in right-hand waistcoat-pocket; diamond ring 
in left-hand waistcoat-pocket ; chain in inside 
coat-pocket " ; and so forth. As for Johnson, 
he began to feel a good deal happier. He 
resented the indignities to which he had 
been subjected, of course, but, after all, he 
had expected something much worse than 
this. All the bewilderment and anxiety of 
the earlier part of the adventure were at 
an end now, and all was plain enough. The 
conjurer had scored 1 heavily, it was true, and 





the effect of Johnson's appearance in the 
cabinet, aghast and panic-stricken, was some^ 
thing altogether beyond the possibilities of 
ordinary preparation and rehearsal But 
Johnson's relief was immense, and now the 
novel experience of having his pockets volun- 
tarily stuffed with valuables was rather pleasant 
than otherwise. Johnson was himself again, 
and on the alert for other moves in the game. 

The gentleman descended from the plat- 
form, and the conjurer came forward, " Now, 
ladies and gentlemen," he said, "you have 
seen the articles safely — or shall we say 
unsafely? — placed in the thief's pockets. But 
to make everything perfectly plain, and to 
identify the owner of each, 1 will just rapidly 
run over them again. This ring, sir— you 
see it ? You are sure you identify it? It is 
your property, and you will remember that it 
is in the left-hand waistcoat-pocket, where I 
carefully replace it, as you see. The watch 
— that is yours, sir ; you may examine it 
again, if you please. No? Well, you will 
bear in mind that it is in the thief's right- 
hand waistcoat-pocket. There it is. This 
chain— the owner of this chain may see that 
no substitution has been made — is in the 
inside coat- pocket, on the left. Remember 
that, please." 

The company, vastly interested, watched 
the apparent return of each trinket, but 
Johnson knew better. Nothing but the con- 

jurer's fingers entered each pocket in turn, 
and nothing remained there at alh Some- 
where within the breast of the conjurer's coat 
was a spot over which his fingers flickered 
instantaneously after each pocket was done 
with ; and when at last he turned away, 
ostentatiously dusting his fingers with his 
pocket-handkerchief after the contamination 
of Johnson, the handkerchief also flickered 
over that same spot. So much Johnson 
observed with eyes trained by use in all 
matters concerned with pockets. 

The conjurer stepped between Johnson 
and the company, putting his pocket-hand- 
kerchief into his coat-tail pocket ; and 
Johnson saw that something black went 
with it. 

11 Now, ladies and gentlemen/' said the 
conjurer, "the experiment I am about to 
make is one of the greatest interest to every 
law-abiding person. I propose to show you 
how, by proper scientific precautions known 
only to myself, all theft, all dishonesty, may 
be rendered ineffectual and useless." 

Gesticulating and bowing elegantly as he 
spoke, the conjurer stepped so closely before 
Johnson that only one thing could happen, 
Johnson had nothing but one small talent, as 
I have said ; he could pick a pocket very well 
indeed — probably better than the conjurer. 
The black thing was a little velvet bag, soft 
and flat, vls Johnjoru felt when it was safely in 




tus own pocket. And the conjurer, with all 
eyes on him, went on, 

"Just consider, now, how valuable my 
process would be to the Government of this 
country. Half the police force might be 
disbanded, and most of the magistrates pen- 
sioned off. People like our friend Johnson, 
ahas Jones, alias Barker, ahas Jenkinson, 
would have to turn honest, or starve. Now 
for the experiment " 

He turned and caught Johnson once more 
by the collar, t( Here, you see, is the pick- 
pocket whom I brought here straight out of 

Oxford Street by the exercise of the wonder- 
ful scientific law to which 1 have alluded. 

Here he is, with your valuables in his pockets, 

as you have observed with your own eyes. 

Now I shall send Johnson away — turn him 

out, kick him out — from this place, and let 

him run where he likes ; and when he is gone 

I shall endeavour, by my scientific process, 

to bring your valuables back 

here, just as I brought Johnson 

himself, and restore them to 

you in a way that I hope will 

surprise you. Now Johnson, 

ahas Jones, alias Barker, alias 

Jmkinson, out you go, and 

keep what you J ve got if you can ! 

Ladies and gentlemen, you 

will agree that I could not 
afford to kick a confederate 

— he would give me away. 

So as a guarantee of good 
faith I kick Johnson off the 
platform. Hall-porter! Run 
this man off the premises, 
and never let him come 
here again ! " 

He swung Johnson 

to the end of the plat- 
form, pushed him over 

the edge with hand and 

foot, and stood bowing 

and waving his wand as 

the porter bundled the 

victim out. "Good- 
bye, Mr. Johnson ! " he 

cried; "good-bye ! 

Run as hard as ever 

you can ! ,? 

As soon as Johnson 

reached the street he 

obeyed this order with 

all the strength of his 

legs, barely observing 

from the corner of his 

eye that the front of 

the hall was covered 

with posters announcing afternoon and even- 
ing performances by the great Lucifo. the 
Wizard of Andalusia. And when he had run 
some distance he turned into a dark entry 
and there disentangled from the velvet bag 
the gold watch, the three rings, the chain, the 
gold pencil-case, the locket, and the silver 

"He was mighty anxious," reflected John- 
son, "for some proof that I wasn't his pal. 
Well, he's got it, and I hope he's satisfied." 

For some days Johnson only ventured out 
after dark ; but his days at home were not 
dull, for he had bought a small collection of 
newspapers where from he derived solace and 
chuckles under the headings : " Riotous 
Scene at an Entertainment," " Extraordinary 
Occurrence at St- Basil's Hall," " Serious 
Attack on a Conjurer," and, in the case of 
an irresponsible halfpenny evening paper, 
11 Lucifo Lamentably Left/' 




[Tht following article is of unique interest. Some time before hn death in November M. Sardou gave the 
writer, in his own admirably clear and lucid words, a full and exact description of his methods of work p his ideas 
on stage- management and on the art of acting. The views of a great craftsman on his own subject are always 
interesting and valuable, and Sardou was admittedly the deftest stage craftsman who ever evolved the story of a play.] 

HE late Victorien Sardou, the 
man to whom hundreds of 
thousands of playgoers, both 
in the Old World and the 
New, have owed so much keen 
enjoyment, possessed a very 
striking personality. His keen, kindly face t 
whose ever-varying expression was the des[)air 
of the many painters who attempted to paint 
him, has been compared with that of many 
great men, from Louis XT. to Voltaire. But 
those who would really picture to themselves 
the man as he was should rather call to mind 
Holbein's Erasmus, and 
this although the small, 
light figure was instinct 
with French vitality and 
the vigour inherited from 
a long line of Southern 

The great dramatist 
spent the summer months 
of each year in one of 
the most beautiful and 
least-known districts of pro- 
vincial France, Marly- le- 
Roi, a hamlet lying on 
the outskirts of the Royal 
woods which take their 
rise at Versailles and ter- 
minate at St. Germains. 
There M Sardou trans- 
formed a once modest 
chateau into one of the 
dwelling-houses in France. 

From the interesting photographs repro- 
duced in the following pages an excellent 
idea may be derived of the gorgeous luxury 
of the surroundings amidst which Sardou 
wrote his plays. 

It would be impossible to give in a few 
words anything like an adequate idea of 
M. Victorien Sardou's prodigious industry. 
During the last fifty-four years — he made his 
theatrical dkbut on All Fools* Day, 1854 — 


] A ■ 

■ 'k. ^v 

1 : 


Prom <t /thoto, by 

most exquisite 

he wrote something like seventy comedies, 
tragedies, comic operas, and books. 

And now for the methods of work by 
which these were produced, as set forth in 
M, Sardou's own description. 

14 How do I write my plays? That is not an 
easy question to answer. But as regards the 
actual casting into shape of a comedy or 
drama I proceed thus. First of all I write out 
a scenario or sketch of the piece; this consists 
of a short story or resume of the plot, for I 
should tell you that, though I am devoted to 
the dramatic form, I greatly admire the art of 
the novelist, and Balzac is 
as dear to me as Shake- 
speare. Then, when I am 
in the mood — for to a cer- 
tain extent I believe in 
the inspiration of the 
moment — I write, as 1 
rule, at one sitting the first 
act, When I next take 
up the work I almost en- 
tirely rewrite each scene, 
leaving it to my faithful 
and conscientious secre- 
taries to make a fair copy. 
Sometimes I go over the 
various portions of a play 
as many as ten times 
before I am finally satis- 
fied. My Instinct is 
always to cut down and to 
abbreviate what I have already done, As 
I write I see the characters before me and 
observe their least actions. Of course, each 
dramatist composes in a different fashion ; to 
■me each scene is an absolute reality, and I 
seem to see into the minds of each of my 

"And at what time in the day do you 
prefer to work ? " 

" I always write in the morning, I do not 
believe in night work; the brain is then 
either dulled or over-excited. As for the 


H, Mmrrt. Pari*, 



ftm « Photo. bjf\ 


[// Mairit Pari*. 

time it takes me to write a play, I should say 
from three to four months, I only do this 
kind of work in the country, for there alone 
can I secure real peace. When I am at 
Marly I make it a rule to receive no visitors 
till after three o'clock. By that time my 
serious writing is over for the day, and I am 
ready to enjoy the company of my friends," 

4t May I ask if you take your plots from 
real life and from history, or do they simply 
occur to you ? " 

"That is not an easy question to answer," 
replied my host, smiling. "Everything and 
anything, from an important historical scene 
to a trivial event in my everyday life, suggests 
plots and inspires me with ideas for new 
plays. You must know that I am a great 
believer in method; I have but little sym- 
pathy for untidy genius, for it is impossible 
to produce good sustained work without a 
certain orderliness." 

He rose and, opening the doors of a fine 

inlaid cabinet, displayed rows on rows of 

what appeared to be letter portfolios, each 

neatly docketed. "There, now you will 

understand something of my work," he 

observed. " The moment I think of a good 

idea or plot I open a fresh dossier and put a 

name on it As time goes on, any historical 

fact or newspaper cutting bearing on the 

initial idea k added in, and so in time my 

VoL ***vil.-l2- 

play composes itself, and comes to fruition 
almost without my knowing that it has done 
so. Of course, this method of procedure is 
especially suitable when applied to the his- 
torical drama, For instance, supposing it 
occurs to me to-day that a certain character, 
known to students of the Renaissance, would 
make the hero of a fine play> I inscribe the 
name on one of these envelopes, jot down a 
few ideas or vague outline of the plot as it 
occurs to me, and then, as time goes on, 
everything, not only about the personage in 
question, but the tow ? n in which he lived , the 
period illustrated by him, and the speeches 
he is recorded to have made, is all gathered 
together till I am ready to start work/' 

" And is it true, monsieur, that you are 
very particular as to the historical accuracy 
of your dramas ; or do you, on the other 
hand, allow yourself a certain poetic licence?" 

|L Yes, to the first part of your question," 
he answered, quickly, " I am extremely exact 
down to the smallest detail, as I can claim 
to take measureless pains- Perhaps I should 
tell you/ 1 he continued, thoughtfully, (i that I 
was born an historian rather than a play- 
wright. When I was quite a young man I 
taught history, and I have always had the 
keenest interest in that past which so many 
believe to be.dea.d, but which is to me ever 
living. Before sitting' down to write aa 




historical play I read every work dealing with 
the period, often as many as fifty to one 
hundred volumes, I am fortunate in the 
possession of an excellent memory, arid long 
after the drama has been produced I can 
give chapter and book for every actual fact 
told therein. Take* for instance, my * Theo- 
dora 1 and the reconstitution of Byzantium — 
the critics called my knowledge into question 
and objected to the use of forks on the stage. 
They declared that in those days these 
modern instruments of refinement were not 
known. It is easy to imagine how foolish 
they must have felt when I, by quoting a 
dozen authorities, conclusively proved my 
point. Why, at Treves, Queen Helena's 

very valuable to me when I was arranging the 
production of l Madame Sans Gene,' " 

" And you have made a special study, I 
believe, of the Revolutionary period ? " 

" Yes, and of old Paris. I can reconstitute 
any corner of mon vitux Paris in a few 
moments without the help of either drawing? 
or plan. After the drama, my favourite 
passion is architecture, and I would go a 
long way at any time to see a mediaeval 
mansion or castle in a good state of preser- 
vation. Not long ago I was fortunate enough 
to discover Robespierre's house in the Rue 
St, Honors. The gentleman who has given 
up the greater portion of his literary career 
to the study of the terrible Revolutionary 


Ftvth d PkaUt. bjf 

fork is one of the most interesting of the 
relics ! " 

11 Then I presume that you yourself arrange 
every detail of the mounting of your plays?" 

" Certainly ; every scene is either drawn by 
myself or under my close supervision. The re- 
constitution of the Acropolis in ' Gismonda ' 
was made from photographs specially taken 
in Athens for the purpose. Of course, 
there are certain periods of history with which 
I personally prefer to deal I am intensely 
interested in the personality of Napoleon L, 
and I have all my life collected Bonapartist 
relics, including a great number of the famous 
soldier's autographs. This collection became 

if. Mairtt r Paris. 

hero declared that the house had been 
pulled down and did not exist But after a 
little trouble I was able to prove," concluded 
M. Sardou, triumphantly* Il that I had indeed 
discovered Robespierre's house, and that the 
flat he had occupied during the last years of 
his lift; was practically intact" 

" I suppose, monsieur, that you are to a 
certain extent in sympathy with the doctrines 
of the Revolution, or that you at least count 
yourself a Republican ? '* 

11 Good heavens, no ! " he cried " I make 
no secret of my opinions. I have the greatest 
contempt for the Republic and all its 
methods, far from ensuring freedom and 



comfort to the individual citizen, a Republican 
rfgimt } to my thinking, strikes at all liberties. 
You will notice, fur instance, that a Republi- 
can Government is always more willing to 
interdict a play containing an ti- Revolutionary 
sentiments anti to itself than is any other 
form of Government." * 

il I need hardly ask you for your views as 
to the Censorship ? >J 

il As far as I can see, the Censor has never 
done any harm," was the unexpected answer, 
"He may object to certain coarse realism, 
and so on- But here, in France, it is a 
mistake to think that the Censor interdicts 
a play* It is the Government who always 

behave as if they had invented the word 
1 realism ' ; I was a stage realist forty years 
ago. Indeed, in ' Nos Intimes' I placed 
on the stage the first passionate love-scene 
ever acted — I mean actually acted—on the 
stage. The Censor objected when he read 
the manuscript, but I asked him to wait until 
he had seen the thing acted, and so carefully 
was it staged that he actually passed it, I 
remember," he added, laughing, "the sensation 
it produced. All Paris rushed to witness it 
Now it would be considered very mild indeed 
" Of course, in those days the stage con- 
ventions were really absurd. Till quite lately 
no sham murder was ever allowed to dis- 

Am a Photo, bv\ 


[II, J/atree, pari*. 

performs that duty. An interdict was placed 
on my * Therm idor' because I described the 
guillotine in unpleasant terms ; and yet had 
it not been for the events of the day 
9 Therm id or, described by me in too true a 
fashion, President Car not, who was Chief of 
the Government at the time that my play 
was stopped, would have never existed, for 
on that day his great grandfather, ' Le Grand 
Carnot/ would have been guillotined." 

"You alluded just now to realism on the 
stage; how do you regard the subject?" 

"Well," said M. Sardou, with considerable 
energy, "a great deal of nonsense is talked 
about realism, Our younger dramatists 

figure the actual boards of the House of 
Moli fere. All unpleasant incidents of that 
kind had to take place behind the scenes ! 
You will doubtless remember that neither 
Racine nor Corneille ever killed a character 
en sane ; and when * Therm idor f was 
mounted at the Theitre Franca is the tumbril 
was not allowed on to the stage, I think I 
can truly claim," he continued, after a short 
pause, " to have been the first to abolish 
many of the least desirable stage conventions* 
It was I who first put real furniture on the 
stage, and my actors first smoked real tobacco 
and real cigars. I assure you a great deal of 
nonsense is talked about realism nowadays," 







u I need hardly ask you if you attach much 
importance to costumes and scenery ? " 

"Certainly. These accessories are all im- 
portant. I always supervise the costuming of 
all my characters, and pay quite as much 
attention to the frocks worn in a modem play 
as to those in an historical drama, I wonder 
if you have heard the old story of Auger's 
misadventure ? On the first night of one of 
his plays every actress in the case appeared 
in a bright red gown ! Stage costumes should 
harmonize, not only with one another, but 
with the scenery. I often draw designs of 
the furniture I wish to see on the stage, and, 
indeed, when writing a play, I see each scene 
as it should be, even to the placing of every 
chair and sofa. I need hardly tell you that 
when mounting an historical piece the trouble 
is infinitely greater j but then the result is 
often proportionately finer." 

M. Sardou was admittedly the best stage- 
manager in the world, and his theories on the 
mounting of plays are worthy of note. 

M Yes, it is quite true that when my plays 
are in rehearsal I live at the theatre, and give 
my whole mind to the staging of the piece. 
But 1 repeat what I said just now ; as I write 
I see each scene, and so if those I have to 
deal with are intelligent the play acts itself, as 
it were, for every movement, every intonation 
of voice is settled by me beforehand, and I 
myself show each actor and actress be they 

stars or supers, exactly what they are to say 
and exactly how they are to say it. If the 
author inspires the cast with confidence, they 
will work for and with him as they will never 
do for anyone else. But it is a mistake to 
suppose that authors are born stage- managers. 
Many a great dramatist does not know how 
to mount his own plays, and the playwright 
lacking this stage instinct had better give 
over the work to somebody else. My friends 
tell me 1 am a born actor, and I am never 
afraid to show an actor, or for the matter of 
that an actress, how a scene should be played 
how a phrase should be delivered, and so on." 

U I suppose you never allow the comedians 
to play your roks in their own way ? ft 

"That depends entirely on the actor with 
whom I am dealing. Of course, I disapprove 
of gag, and I never allow tricks to be played 
with my text. But such an actress as Mmc. 
R^jane or Sarah Bernhardt adds greatly to 
the value of a part by her interpretation, and 
by the * business ' she introduces into the 
role, I doubt, ,s he added, thoughtfully, 
" whether keen intelligence is not of more 
value to a comedian than is the possession 
of genius.*' 

H Do you, w T hen writing a new play, com- 
pose your characters with a view to any 
special cast ? For instance, was Mme. Sarah 
Bernhardt in your mind when you wrote 
4 LaTos<Qrigitialfrom 




" No. The contrary has often been asserted 
about me ; but I can assure you that I have 
never written round any special actor or 
actress, though I have not infrequently 
waited for some years before I found a suit- 
able interpreter. But though I admit that 
a star can do much to make or mar a play, I 
attach almost as much importance to the 
least prominent member in the cast The 
dramatic more than any other art owes 
everything to the perfection of the tout 
tnscmbh ; and that is why I consider no 
trouble too great where the stage-management 
of a new piece is in question. By the way, 
I may add that not only was * La Tosca ' 
bu# also ' Fedora ' written without any 
thought of the great actress who has made 
the characters her own. To me * the play's 
the thing/ and much as I have owed, both 

actresses. Alas ! many of those associated 
with my earlier successes have now left us 
for ever ; indeed, with one exception all those 
who acted in my first successful play, *Les 
Premieres Armes de Figaro,' are now dead." 

" I suppose you approve of that essentially 
French institution, the Conservatoire ? " 

" I hate and abominate it/' he answered, 
quickly. " 1 consider that to the Conserva- 
toire system of training actors and actresses 
we owe the lack of stage lovers. I much 
prefer the old stock companies as a training 
ground for comedians. Why, some of the 
very best players in France have never been 
to the Conservatoire at all. I admit that 
there a young person may acquire certain 
elementary details of the dramatic art, but as 
a rule the intelligent novice finds that he or 
she has much to unlearn. On the stage 


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/l>*ujl > 

J M ** 

J ^tLXf p * ■» ■ * "■- ■ ' ■ •» fc I i ? ^ 

gf... /^ *-yC^ 


* 9 \ Jc^A +~c^ C*^ A. 


in the past and present, to my interpreters, I 
would not care to compose a drama with a 
view to the characters and idiosyncrasies of 
those who were going to act it." 

"By the way, monsieur, which do you 
consider make the best comedians, men or 
women ? " 

"Women undoubtedly; and in connection 
with this matter," my host observed, medi- 
tatively, " I have the highest opinion of the 
fair sex. I consider women superior to 
men in almost everything ; they possess the 
intuitive faculty to an extraordinary degree, 
and may almost always be trusted to do the 
right thing in the right place. They are 
full of noble instincts, and, though heavily 
handicapped by Fate, come well out of every 
ordeal. You have but to turn to history to 
realize the truth of what I say." 

"And do you find it is always easy to 
manage your feminine interpreters ? " 

" Yes ; I have been very fortunate in my 

alone can acting be learnt ; if, indeed, acting 
can be learnt. I have always believed that 
comedians were born, not made." 

" You spoke, monsieur, of your admiration 
for Balzac. Have you yourself never tried 
to write a story ? " 

" No ; but I may do so some day," he 
answered, smiling somewhat mysteriously. 
" By the way, I once wrote a short nouvelle. 
But the difference between the art of the 
dramatist and that of the novelist is stupen- 
dous ; it is the business of the dramatist to 
concentrate, that of the novelist to dilute. 
Each of my plays is written round a central 
situatbn — thrilling, touching, comic, or ter- 
rible. I delight in reconstituting a world that 
has faded away. I always try to obtain 
portraits of the historical personages men- 
tioned in my dramas. By the way, every 
character in ' Fedora ' once lived. Ah, 
believe me, play-writing is by no means such 
light labour as some seem to imagine ! " 



HEN the last of the mail-bags 
had been opened ; when, on 
the chock-a-block tables, the 
sorted letters stood in serried, 
marshalled rows, young Fraser 
and I carried them across to 
the swing -seated postmen's benches and 
dumped them down in handfuls, cards and 
cakes and children's toys alike. Then, and 
then only, did we pull chairs to the frosty 
fire, set feet on the iron over-part of the 
stove, and sip our parboiled, milkless tea 
from the long jugs that served at once as 
teapot and as cup. 

Presently young Fraser swung round and 
pointed over his shoulder at the sorting- 
tables we had cleared. For all that it 
was Christmas Eve never a letter lumbered 
them ; it might have been a mere common- 
place week-day, so well had things got 
through. No wonder he was in ecstasies 
with himself. We were level with, even 
ahead of, our work. And before us, till up 
the town hill and through the drifted snow 
the motor-mail sjiould grunt and puff, there 
lay an hour — a whole sixty minutes of un- 
expected rest, the gorgeous fruit of what 
young Fraser called " wiring in." He was a 
splendid boy to work with — the best I ever 
knew. Post Office blood was in him to the 
heart's core — three generations of it, as he 
loved to boast. 

"By Gad, Morell," he cried, "it's mag- 
nificent ! We've never managed so well 
before. I wish to goodness the chief were 
here. He wouldn't talk so much about the 
inferiority of the present generation if he 
could see them I " And, tilting back his 
chair, he waved a hand vaingloriously at the 
vacant tables. "Never a letter on them — 
and an hour to spare ! " 

Then, because I answered nothing, because 
he felt me wanting in enthusiasm, he leaned 
quickly forward, so that the front legs of his 
chair met the floor again ; and as with its 
passage his body came once more level with 
mine, his left hand clumped me heavily on 
the back and he triumphed into my ear: 
" Not a single letter on the tables ! " 

Crash — crackle and crash — on to the 
stone hearth went the jug that I was carrying 
to my lips ; a brown stream trickled out on 
to the carpetless boards beyond. I started 
to my feet with a cry that came quicker than 
the thought of repression, and leaned against 
the mantelpiece, nervous and a-shake. 

Young Fraser stared at me in amazement 
Wonder and regret chased across his face, 
going and coming, again and yet again, like 
stage armies with their recurring exits and 
entrances. But when he proffered me his 
own jug and began to blurt out apologies for 
what he called thoughtlessness, I waved the 
brew away and cut his explanations short 

" If s not your fault at all ! " I said, still 
leaning against the mantelpiece and trying to 
pull myself together a bit " It's the fault of 
my beastly nerves, and too much night duty 
— and much too much strong tea. I've been 
in an awful state just lately ! " 

Young Fraser nodded his sympathy. 

" I've noticed it," he said. " So have the 
other chaps. And we've been talking about 
it — and how bad you've looked this last 
week. Before that you were as fit as a 
fiddle. But now " And he waved ex- 
pressive hands at me, as though to say, " If 
ever there was a wreck it's you ! " 

iM into my chair l 




again. Fraser put some coal on the fire, and, 
before beginning to smoke, offered me a 
cigarette. I shook my head. 

'* I'm off my smoked' I explained. " I'm 
off my food* I'm off everything. 7: 

Fraser whistled, with averted face* But 
his silence seemed to me to invite confidence, 
and I took heart of grace to tell him all. 

"fton't think I'm mad, or that I've been 
drinking or taking drugs," I began. 

"As if I should," he interrupted ; "as if I 
should. You're the very last chap to do any- 
thing of that sort. We all know that. And, 
besides, if you were you couldn't- " 

"Win pots as I do, you mean P" 
"Exactly," he acquiesced "That's just 
what I was going to say." 

* Thank you," I answered. Then I blurted 
out quickly: "Jack, old man, I've seen a 

Again the boy whistled! 

and this time he faced me 

fair and square, His eyes 

narrowed a little in a way 

they had when he looked 

at things hard or was at 

all in doubt, and I felt 

that he was wondering 

what to do with 

me. Then his 

eyes widened 

again, and he 

leaned back in 

his chair and 

said :— 

11 Suppose 
you tell me all 
a b out it 
For there's 
nothing like 
getting things 
off your chest" 
So, staring 
into the fire, 
avoiding his 
face, I began, 
because I knew 
it was the only 
way to make 
him believe 
and under- 

" It was last 
week, on night 
duty, about this 
time, in the 
office here, 
The sorting 
tables were clear, just as they are now I 
had taken the letters round to the postmen's 
benches, and was going to have a sit down 
and a rest and a cup of tea. But before I 
did so I had another look at the sorting 
tables, just to see that I hadn't left anything 
on them, though I knew I hadn't You know 
how one does that ? " 

" I know/' said the boy at my side " Just 
as a painter looks at a picture when he's 
finished it — as any man who's done a job 
looks when he's glad the job's done/ 1 

11 Exactly. Well, just because I knew I'd 
left nothing on the tables I looked at them 




then. And on the top rack, standing against 
the criss-cross wire netting, I saw a letter. 
But it wasn't one of those I'd sorted. I knew 
that at once. Someone had put it there after- 
wards ! Someone I couldn't see ! " 

Young Fraser laughed, and put a hand 
affectionately on my arm. 

" What rubbish ! " he said. " You'd over- 
looked it. There's nothing in that. And 
how on earth could you tell it wasn't one 
of the hundreds you'd just sorted ? Your 
nerves were on edge and you're run down. 
It's enough to make a fellow jumpy, this old 
house and the dark corners and passages — 
and doors that make noises every time the 
wind blows, even though they're shut ! You 
fancy things, that's what it is !" 

" I wish I did," said I. " But this wasn't 
fancy, or anything like it. And what I saw 
wasn't an ordinary letter at all ! " 

Then, because the boy beside me made no 
answer, and I knew he was growing nervous 
— nervous of me and of what I might say or 
do— I broke sharply off and asked him a 

"Jack," I said, "do you know what a 
Mulready envelope is?" 

Before he could answer me— almost before 
the words were out of my mouth — a sound, 
such a sound as a human being might utter 
in the extremity of mental anguish, came to 
us across the room. It was a faint, moaning 
noise, a manner of hopeless wail ; more than 
anything else a sob, but a sob of inexpressible 

Then it was that young Fraser ceased to 
listen to me with a cold, judicial air, and all 
his critical aloofness went, metamorphosed 
into a fear that his eyes mirrored and made 

" Good God ! What's that ?" he cried, and 
glanced nervously over his shoulder — half 
glanced only, as if he feared to see the thing 
for which he looked. 

I drew my chair closer to young Fraser's. 
I knew the thing would pass, as it had passed 
a week ago that night. And I was glad to 
have by me a fellow - creature whose fear 
matched my own. 

Fraser caught at the poker and stabbed 
the reddening coal to a blaze. Then he 
whispered fearfully in my ear: "What's a 
Mulready envelope?" 

Only half conscious of what I said, my 
brain eager and my ears intent to catch the 
slightest sound, I whispered back my answer 
to the boy. 

" When first the penny post came, and 
before stamps, as we know them, were used, 

the Government sold an envelope for carry- 
ing letters in. The charge for the envelope 
included cost of carriage as well — just like 
the plain embossed penny envelopes we sell 
to-day — and the envelope itself was designed 
by a great artist, with all sorts of figures on 
its address side. I saw one once in a collec- 
tion ; they're awfully valuable now. Well, it 
was one of those that I found on the sorting- 
table a week ago." 

Young Fraser shivsred. Then, caught by 
a sudden idea, he threw cut : " Perhaps 
someone sent it through the post by mistake 
— some poor person, or some schoolboy with 
an album, who didn't know its value?" 

I shook my head, caught the boy's wrist, 
and held it as I said, slowly : — 

"That might have been possible, if — 
if " 

"Well — well?" young Fraser helped me 

" If the envelope had been there." 

" But you saw it — just now you said you 
did. What do you mean-? " 

" It was there," I answered ; " but not to 
touch. It was intangible. I tried to take it 
in my hand, and I couldn't. And then " 

"And then?" 

" I took my eyes off it for a second, and 
when I looked it was gone ! " 

Again young Fraser tried to find the 
natural cause. 

" Perhaps your eyes were tired ? " he 
hazarded. "Perhaps you'd been reading 
about a Mulready envelope and were out of 
sorts and fancied you saw one ? " 

I paused — to give my coming answer 

" I hadn't been reading about the sobbing 
— the sobbing such as we've heard to-night 
And I hadn't been reading about the other 
things I saw afterwards." 

"What other things?" 

I looked at Fraser hard and long in my 
doubt. Somehow, for a reason that I couldn't 
fix or place, I could not bring myself to tell 
him. It wasn't fair to him — to him of all 
people. He, too, might see what I had seen 
— and know the thing for what it was. Then, 
as I stood there, doubtful and divided in 
mind, casting about for a decision that should 
best serve us both, a sudden cry tore through 
the silence, and young Fraser stood before 
the middle sorting-table and pointed. 

There, on the top rack, resting against the 
criss-cross wires, was a letter ! And we had 
left none. This time it was not my word 
alone, but the boy's to back it and to prove. 

1 6tfl^fmaciffiKff» white - a 



sheet of paper, stared back at me. The 
same thoughts assailed us both. Vyas it an 
ordinary envelope — or was it — was it the 
Mulready ? 

And then young Fraser, leaning forward, 
peering into the corner of the table's topmost 
rack— where, against the criss-cross wires, the 
letter stood — called wildly : " My God, it is — 
it is the Mulready. I can see the drawings 
quite plain and clear." 

Though I had no doubt, though in my 
heart of hearts I felt that it was the self-same 
envelope that I had seen, yet, lest my tired 
eyes had tricked me, I, too, leaned forward 
and looked. I saw Britannia on her throne 
—Britannia, with circumvolent angels, and 
the elephant, and the flying deer, and the tall 
ships, and all the detail of the well-known 
design ; and then, knowing that it was vain, I 
put out my hand and tried to grasp the letter. 
But before my hand could come at it, it 
seemed suddenly to fall — to fall through the 
unyielding wood of the sorting-table, so that, 
passing through the boarding of the floor, it 
disappeared wholly from our view. But I had 
had time to read the address — written in a 
flowing Victorian hand. 

1 crooked my arm in young Fraser's, and 
clutched at the table's side and whispered 
quickly to him : — 

" Hold up for a minute — it's coming — but 
it will pass. For God's sake don't give way!" 

I saw him set his teeth and brace himself 
to bear ; then with his free hand he pointed 
to the corner whence the sob had come. 

" Look ! " he whispered. " Over there ! 
It's in the office now ! " 

Slowly, out of the darkness of the far 
corner, silently, without sound of footfall or 
of breath, there came into the light the figure 
of a man — a man clad in such garments as 
one sees in prints and portraits of the late 
Queen's early reign. It wore a long blue- 
bottle coat of some dark stuff, while out of 
the canary-coloured vest a frilled shirt peeped ; 
the trousers were tight and strapped beneath 
the boot ; a high stock touched and almost 
covered the chin ; on the coat itself a row of 
buttons sparkled and shone. 
. The figure went stooping — stooping always 
— and we could not see its face. But it 
seemed to be searching — searching unceas- 
ingly — till it came level with the locked 
letter-box that opened, cupboard-fashion, into 


'POSTjiCE 0ME9>EJMrr. «..«..! 


And from the far corner of the room there 
came to us once more the faint moaning 
noise, a manner of hopeless wail ; more than 
anything else a sob, but a sob of inexpressible 

Because I knew what was going to happen 

VoL xxxm-ia. 

the room, but whose key was on the ring 1 
kept that week. It seemed to fumble vainly 
with the lock, to pull fruitlessly at the meet- 
ing of the double doors, to want to see 
within, as if something Jay hidden that it 
could not fiofelTY OF MICHIGAN 

9 8 



Then, suddenly, it tried no longer, but 
turned and faced us as we stood by the 
tables. Above its head it raised deploring 
hands ; once more the helpless wail divided 
the silence that surrounded us ; again we 
heard the faint moaning noise, more than 
anything else a sob— a sob of inexpressible 
distress. And then young Fraser tore him- 
self from my side and threw out his hands, 
as if between him and the pitiable figure 
there existed some inexplicable understand- 
ing — some strange sympathy that I could 
not share. And the Thing's face was the 
face of young Fraser himself, 

" Yes ! Yes ! " and " Yes ! " again he cried, 
and his voice, though firm and sure, was full 
of tears. It was as if he answered some 
question asked, but unspoken, 

And it seemed that the answer was under- 

stood. For the 
features that were 
young Fraser's 
own lost their 
sadness and grew 
glad j the eyes, 
that had been 
heavy with weep- 
ing, seemed to 
smile, while the 
hands pointed to 
the floor beneath 
the tables. And 
as the boy's face 
flushe d with 
understand i ng 
and his eyes grew 
glad too it slowly 
vanished and was 
gone — gone as 
that night a week 
back, when 1 had 
seen it in my soli- 
tude and fear. 
But then it had 
not smiled or done 
anything else but 
search and sob. 

Young Fraser 
set his arms on 
the table nearest 
him, and on his 
arms he set his 
face, and I saw 
him shake like a 
man with ague. 
I stood, trying 
not to watch him, 
and presently he 
looked up, his 
hand on a steadying chair-back, and spoke, 

"It was my greatgrandfather!" he said, 
simply, and I knew that what he said was 
true. '* He was once postmaster here, but 
they dismissed him on suspicion of stealing a 
letter — a letter with money in it that could 
never be traced. It's a skeleton in the 
family cupboard, and that's why I've always 
made out that I'm the third Fraser in the 
office- But Fm not — I'm the fourth. And 
we've a miniature of my great-grandfather at 
home. Fm as like him as two peas, and 
they say Fm like him in character as well. 
So" — he faced me confident and sure — "so 
he came to me to help him, to clear him of 
the shame that won't let him rest. And Fm 
going to do it ! " 

Bold as the boy's assurance was, somehow 
'. hadLiw.^^jieiWOuld make it good. 



And when I asked him how, he laughed, 
with the same glad eyes that were in the face 
of the Thing, and pointed to the floor as the 
Thing had pointed, and answered me : — 

"The letter is there — underneath the 
tables ; it slipped off them and fell through a 
chink in the boards ! " 

" But there's no chink there ! " I cried. 

"There was then," said young Fraser t 
calmly. u And when the office was refitted 
and altered, it got filled up. But we shalJ 
find the letter underneath ! * 

I looked at him, amazed at his confidence, 

" Why are you so sure ? " I wonderingly 

" Because He 
told me," said 
young Fraser, 
smiling still, (l We 
understood each 
other, He and 1!" 

So straightway, 
for all that it was 
Christinas Eve 
and work was yet 
to be done, we 
got the boards 
loosened and 
moved them, 
and looked for 
wiur young Fraser 
knew was there. 
Soon, groping 
with tongs be- 
neath the spot 
where the letter 
had seemed to 
stand that night, 
he came on a 
dirty, grey thing 
in a crevice under 
the floor. He 
tugged a little 
over-forceful ly, 
and I heard the 
noise that paper 

makes in tearing. Then he drew the 
dirty, grey thing up, still nipped by the 
delving tongs, and as it came clear of the 
crevice I heard the rattle of coins upon the 
floor. Following their sound, I found them. 
They were two guineas of late Georgian date. 
I gave them to young Fraser without saying 
a word. 

" There were two guineas in the lost letter!'' 
he triumphed. "That was why my great- 
grandfather was suspected." And he handed 
me the dirty grey paper to see. 

There, looking at it beneath the gas, I 
knew it for what it was. Beneath the drab 

and dirt of seventy 
years I saw Bri- 
tannia on her 
throne— Britannia, 
with circumvolent 
angels, and the 
elephant* and the 
flying deer r and 
the tall ships, and 
all the details of 
the design. 

Then f standing 
at my side, look- 
ing over my 
shoulder, young- 
Fraser said : — 

"Read the ad- 
dress, if it is 
legible still." 

I did as he 
Mr, Thomas 
**34, Irongate 
" Bradford." 
It was the 
second time that 
I had read those 
words that 



;*V I roll the dutk in a 

j/, ■ ■ newspaper. 


of a 


How I Puzzled 


From Photographs by 
Geo. Mewnesj JJd. 

To my honor it has 
fallen to l he ground. 


....-■"-" V 

AN incident occurred at my 
first professional engage- 
ment of importance which 
I thought would prove most dis- 
astrous to me, but which, as a 
matter of fact, resulted greatly to 
my benefit, This was when I was 
performing at Washing- 
ton several years ago, 
I was very nervous; it 
was my first big engage- 
ment, and I was 
extremely anxious to 
please the audience. I 
had not then, of course 
at all as big an assort 
ment of tricks as 1 have 
now, but I had just 
completed one after six 
months' practice which 
I felt very sure would 
go well. This consisted 
of making ducks dis- 
appear by placing them 
in a newspaper and 
rolling the paper up into 
a very small ball, or 
tearing it to pieces, 
which convinced the 
audience that no duck 
was there* It was a 
great piece of dvxterity ; 


; \\ ■; '/";''■ : but it req u i red to be done very 

quickly, for the slightest hitch would 
spoil the effect. 

Well, to cut a long story short or 
a short story long, I bungled the 
trick and dropped a duck on the 
stage as I was about to roll up the 
paper. Of course, I did 
not know that, and the 
audience broke into pro- 
longed roars of laughter. 
On discovering the acci- 
dent I ftjjt that my pro- 
fessional reputation had 
sustained a blow which 
it might not survive. 
Quickly a thought 
passed through my 
mind- I must act with- 
out hesitation, I raised 
my right hand, silenced 
the audience^ and when 
the laughter had sub- 
sided remarked as 
follows : *' Ladies and 
Gentlemen, — I always 
drop one duck to show 
you the ducks are real 
and alive. The trick is 
to make two ducks out 
-Original froi9* *his one bird. Watch 

the duck TRig^v ERSI TY F Ml eHfcSH takin & this duck 

Buit taking it up, I 

immediately' make it 

into two ducks. 




in my left hand, 

placing the right 

hand on the wing, 

I give a quick 

pull, and here we 

have the two.* 
More laughter 

followed and tre- 
mendous cheer- 
ing, and I felt that 
I had escaped suc- 
cessfully from one 
of the most critical 
moments I had ever 

I was called into the 
manager's office directly I 
went off the stage. "Now," 



Jn the (op pjctute we see how the ribbon 

ahd w:itnjh arc held, white the other show's 

the W3!t;h-tase wiih the reflect Ion 

af the hidden card. 

remarked, think- 
ing I might as 
well make the 
most of the situa- 
tion. I got an 
extra twenty- five 
dollars a week on 
the spot 

When I left 
Washington I 
could have 
booked enough 
engagements to 
keep me going for 
several years, but I had 
a lot of tricks in view 
which I wanted time to 
develop and practise, and 
therefore refused all en- 
gagements for the moment. 
When I came to Eng- 
land I had more than two 
hundred tricks in my reper- 
toire, every one of which I had 
invented myself Several of 
them were pure sleight of hand 
tricks; I mean that they were 
simply illusions performed 
without the aid of any me- 
chanism whatever. These are 
especially popular in private 
houses, where their efTerts may 
be seen to better advantage 
than m a big theatre, 

I remember the Queen was 
greatly mystified by some of 
the tricks which I have had 

?■ vlS 

\ said to myself, " I am going 
to * get it ' for dropping that 
duck " ; but, on the contrary, 1 
*as received by the manager in 
the most cordial and friendly 

14 1 heard the audience laugh- 
ing, n he said, "and that is what 
I like to hear. Now, look here, I'll book you 
for another month if you like." I shook 
my head "Not at my present salary," I 

Shewing the ?vhnf{ 
piece of pap 
cenSed in the pa] in 
of The hand 




TRICK. OriqinflibiflQiHfltlie two papers, bolh 

WtY OF Miffed 



the honour of performing before Her Majesty 
on various occasions. When 1 was giving a 
performance at which both the King and 
Queen were present, much interest was 
aroused by a trick which is one of the most 
difficult feats in my repertoire. It is per- 
formed with a piece of ribbon, a pack of 
cards, and a double-cased gold watch* Here 
is the trick. I ask one of the audience to 
select a card from the pack (which is a new 
one) and to put the card in his pocket without 

looking at it I should 
add here that while the 
card is being chosen 
my eyes are bandaged. 
% V ^^fc Then I give him one 

end of the rib- 
bon to hold, 
and hand the 
other to some- 
body in 
the audi- 
e n c e , 
whom I 
also ask 
to hold 
the gold 
watch, I 
ask the 



■ ": \ 

I lift the chair gently 
from the floor— 

■■■;,. ... person in whose 
f'.;. pocket is the un- 

known card to 
concentrate all 
his attention on the card, and 
then I turn to the person 
holding the other end of the 
ribbon and ask him to open 
and look at the polished case 
of the gold watch, in which 
he at first sees a reflection of 
his own image; but this 
gradually fades away, and he 
sees instead the reflection of 
a playing card. I then ask 
the person who has the card 
in his pocket to produce it, 
when it is seen to be the 
same as the one reflected in 
the case of the gold watch. 

And it Immediately 

becomes a. Lravc tling- 



When I performed this trick at Marl- 
borough House the Queen held one end of 
the ribbon and the gold watch, whilst the 
Prince of Wales held the other end of the 
ribbon and selected the card, which on that 
occasion was the three of clubs. The Prince 
of Wales was immensely pleased and, I think, 
very puzzled at this trick, which he was good 
enough to say was one of the cleverest things 
he had ever seen. He subsequently pre- 
sented me with a splendid diamond scarf-pin. 
Her Majesty was also immensely puzzled 
by the trick in which I tear up a piece of 
cigarette paper , roll the pieces into a ball, 
and hand them to a member of the audience 
to unroll, who discovers it to be a whole 
cigarette-paper, undamaged in any way. 1 
did this trick, I think, half a-dozen times for 
the Queen, who stood quite close to me 
while I was doing it Such tricks are the 
purest sleight of hand ; by certain move- 
ments the eye is deceived, but these move- 
ments are of such a delicate character and 
have to be gone through with such rapidity 
that it is only possible to do them after long 
and careful practice. It took mo, for ex- 
ample, a considerable time and much hard 
practice to do this cigarette-paper trick. 
But the most interesting part of the trick to 
me is that, after telling 
my audience how to per- 
form it, they are always 
more mystified than at 
first, The photographs 
on the preceding page 
and explanation, how 
ever, will make things 
quite clear* I form a little 
ball from a whole piece 
■ of paper and conceal it 
in the palm of my right 
hand* I then tear into 
pieces another cigare tie- 
paper {holding it by the 
thumb and first finger), 
which I have been show- 
ing my audience, and 
form it into a little ball 
after tearing it, and with 
the fourth finger try and 
change the two little balls 
by replacing the whole 
one with the torn pieces. 
But while doing so, appa- 
rently by accident, but, 
of course, purposely T I 
let the one palmed (the 

■iginalltotfp on ^ fal1 lo thc 
l *ERSITYO^HI^f ng * he pr * 


' ^1/ 

3, >y 



dicament I am in, there is my brutal and cruel per- 
il ways someone good _ formance of tearing a live 
enough to offer to pick up M J duck to pieces, 
the one dropped; but I say, " My dear sir/' I replied, 
"No, no, thank you, it does ,^fi H^^^ " * certainly shall not stop 
not matter," and to the jJ jjjjfe K% \ performing that trick until 
astonishment of the audi- ■ ^^^^ \ m Y audiences are tired of it 
ence I perform the trick / ^^»fll i^^fel^fcs\ —b ut don't you understand 
successfully by opening / ^11 mL tBI |m£A ^' ll ]l is a trick t or an 
up the supposed torn / fl iFlf^ih illusion, and that 1 do not 
pieces held in thumb and j n JUff K \ ^o anything so horribly 
finger, when it is found V V ^^*K oJ ' crue * ^ s to tear U P a " ve 
to be whole. Someone \ WW ^j j duck, though 1 may 
then insists upon picking \ ■ \Vh^ f '■ appear to do so?" I 
up the paper thai fell, and ^ 5^Bt^^B ' offered to show the officer 
finds that both of the pieces \ Jfl^TTr^V ^ ow ^ 1e tr ' c ^ was done if he 
are whole and of the original \ jU i^^^^* liked, but he took my word 

size. 'j^W ^^d ^r* aiu ' went awa y» satisfied 

In another of the tricks I -^^^^^^^fBT that my trick was not per- 

performed the Queen drew formed at the expense of a 

a card from the pack, which . .v/" N , . duck's feelings, 

proved to be the jack of ^// Si J^UfflT"?!!^ 11 ' Many of my tricks have 

clubs. An ordinary carpet [V- taken a very long time to 

tack was now placed in the '.j '.i^.^^['^^-^^ :J "" : ^i^'^ perfect, and the work and 

pack in a different part from : ^' : ,^V S J " ■ : O \ expense involved in their 

where the selected card had C >^ — ^ -"d preparation are often very 

been placed, I then threw ^ ^^\ ^"N considerable, 

the entire pack at a board / / \ m ^S ^ ^° la ^ e one exam pl e > I 

held by an attendant. The /'// ■ £^mPBth^ ^ N ^ ave in mv re P erto * re a {ru ^ 

jack of clubs was found / J jUkVfi fr W^ \ which consists of throwing 

nailed to the board with :] $ jfl Hi IFjt/ a cover of a light flimsy 

the tack through the U gm L/lff\ material over a table, and 

centre, while the re- *J J| I^^hNL ■ ] * n an ^ nstant ^e table, a 

mainder of the pack fell - l ^^B W^^^^m \ solid piece of heavy fu mi- 

to the floor. I recollect Vt Y^^VnjI J -' ture, crumbles up and 

His Majesty remarking, , ■^^* ,i *'TO|jffl m disappears. 

" Extraordinary ! " s w"^ W^^rM-- ^ ^ e ta ^ e ' s ma de in 

I think one of the most IJ|^I something like eighty dif- 

a musing experiences I ever p\ ■ P^^'' ferent pieces. I had each 

had in my life was on an ■ ; .*m S,, ^-*1 B'.T* piece made by a different 

occasion when I was per- I -'•* model maker, to avoid the 

forming a trick at the Palace '■■£ ,.^BB W F'-V slightest chance of anyone 

Theatre in London, which ,-*£*& Wf discovering its mechanism, 

consisted apparently of tear- ^P / It took me a year to design 

ing a live duck into three 1 y^t it i* quite » simple i # it, and, one way and another, 

parts, nutting them into a natu:c . l ° fj* ,,u '* a : j.) COst me over f oar hundred 

J . * r , ° * , . second diiiir fro ni it. C V I , i r *, £- * i_ j 

basin, ana turning them in ^ - " f pounds before it was Imishea. 

a moment into three live ^3^ ~^^^ ^^ ^ff When I was performing 

ducks. Of course, I never V, .■■ ■■*'.'. ;.a : '\:--(y : '^^p^mL^2 at a country house a little 

thought for a moment that ^n' "*1^I^F!] while ago a gentleman 

anyone would really believe ^'^^Z^^-^''' 1 '''"^^ '■ offered to buy the table 

that I actually did tear up ^"V v^^^F^L^^ from me for five hundred 

a live duck, but to my sur- | flk \ ^"-^^^3^) pounds, but I declined the 

prise an officer representing £j£{*m -■ ■ •'" V^.- -i..-.?** v:r.' (X. offer, as the trick is worth to 

the Society for the Preven- MAKING ONE CHAIR INTO TWO, me a good deal more than 

tion of Cruelty to Animals the sum named, especially 

called on me one evening, and informed me as I introduce it in many different ways into 

that his society intended to prosecute me my performances. 

unless I instantly stopped what he called T^pcpj | V^P!^in~ 5 f r ^^^TT?f L h- j^?]^^ 1 ^* wh * ch are 



illustrated in this article, have always been 
very popular- One of them consists in lifting 
a chair from the stage and immediately pro- 
ducmg a similar chair from it. In the other, 
a particularly sol id- looking cha'ir is grasped 
and instantly converted into a travelling-bag- 
Those who have been mystified by these 
tricks may now be able to discover for them- 
selves, from the illustrations given, how they 
are done. 

I have many simple tricks in my repertoire 
which 1 have often shown people how to do, 
but, simple as they are, they, of course, 
r e q u i r e a good d ea 1 of prac t i ce. For exa m p le, 
here is a trick which used to puzzle people a 
great deal, and yet it is quite a simple one. 
It consists of breaking up half-a-dozen eggs 
into a hat ; the hat is then placed 
over a spirit lamp for a few minutes 

v.:/'. '■ 


and turned upside down over a plate, when an 
omelette drops out. Now s the secret of the 
trick consists in the fact that the hat contains a 
cooked omelette ; the eggs are all "dummies " 
— that is, they have been sucked dry with 
the exception of one, which the performer 
manages to break over the table. This is 
done for effect and to strengthen the illusion. 
I have done this trick with people standing 
quite close to my elbow, and yet they could 
not understand how it was done until I 
showed them. 

One of my prettiest and most effective 
tricks, and yet one not difficult to perform* 

is the following, I show two or three hand- 
kerchiefs, throw them in the air about five 
feet, and before they return to me again they 
have become transformed into a snake about 
five or six feet long, The way in which I 
happened to invent this trick is very curious. 
While in the United States I visited my 
friends Mr. and Mrs. Marti nka. At the time, 
in their Magical Palace, I noticed various 
articles, among which were imitation snakes, 
and the position in which the snakes lay 
amongst some handkerchiefs suggested the 
trick to me. I immediately requested Mrs* 
Martinka to use needle and thread and to 
follow my instructions, which she did, and 
the trick was performed for the first time 
there and then. Perhaps these two photo- 
graphs will enable my 
readers to see how it is 

I had rather a funny 
experience when per- 
forming at a pj irate house 
some time ago. I was 
working on a little stage at 
one end of the room, and 
during the performance 
someone handed me a tiny 
box and asked me if I 
could do a trick with it. 
There were several I could 
have done, and as I was 
considering which would 
be the most effective the 
lights in the room went 
out suddenly, and I 
thought I would have 
a little joke with the 

"Now, ladies and 

gentlemen," I exclaimed, 

"you saw the little box 

which has just been given 

to me — it is a small one, 

but I am going to take 

a live elephant out of it" As I spoke 

there was a heavy, dull thud on the stage 

{caused by two of my assistants jumping 

on it), and then followed a shuffling noise 

like the moving of heavy feet. " Ah ! " I 

exclaimed, as the room was suddenly lighted 

up again, " you heard the elephant, ladies and 

gentlemen ; I am sorry you could not see 

him/' Most of the audience understood I 

was joking, but one of them, a lady, told me 

afterwards that she considered it was the 

most wonderful of all my tricks, and asked 

me quite seriously if I could let her see the 


: - v — * «##£• -^iS£j3 





ICKIE lived at New Cross. 
At least, the address was New 
Cross; but really the house 
where he lived was one of 
a row of horrid little houses 
built on the slope where 
once green fields ran down to the river. 

But there were no green things growing in 
the garden at the back of the house where 
Dickie lived with his aunt. There were stones 
and bones and bits of brick, dirty old dish- 
cloths matted together with grease and mud, 
wom-out broom- heads and broken shovels, a 
bottomless pail, atid the mouldy remains of 
a hutch where once rabbits had lived. 

And when his aunt sold the poor remains 
of the hutch to a man with a barrow, Dickie 
was almost as unhappy as though the hutch 
had really held a furry friend. 

It is really with the going of that rabbit- 
hutch that this story begins. Because it was 
then that Dickie, having called his aunt a 
"beast/ 3 and hit at her with his little dirty 
fist, was well slapped and put out into the 
bereaved yard to "come to himself," as his 
aunt said, He threw himself down on the 
ground and cried, and wriggled with misery 
and pain, and wished — ah ! many things. 

" Wot's the blooming row now ? 7 ' the man 
next door suddenly asked* 

Vol xatxviL— 14. < 

"They've took away the 'utch," said Dickie. 

14 Leaves more room/ 1 said the man next 
door, leaning on his spade. "Say, matey, just 
you chuck it. Chuck it, I say. How in 
thunder can I get on with my digging with you 
'owlin' yer 'ead off? You get up and peg 
along in an* arst yer aunt if she be agreeabla 
for me to do up her garden a bit. I could 
do it odd times. You'd like that ? " 

"Not *arf," said Dickie, who got up and 
went in, 

" Come to yourself, eh ? n sneered the aunt 

Dickie said what it was necessary to say, and 
got back to the "garden." 

"She says she ain't got no time to waste, 
and if you 'ave she don't care what you does 
with it." 

" There's a dirty mug you've got on you,' 1 
said the man next door- -leaning over to give 
Dickie's face a rub with a handkerchief 
hardly cleaner. "Now I'll come over and 
make a start." He threw his leg over the 
fence. "You just peg about and be busy 
pickin' up all them fancy articles, and nex' 
time yer aunt goes to Buckin'ham Palace for 
the day we'll have a bonfire/ 5 

" Fifth o 1 November ? n said Dickie. 

Copyright, 1908, by E. 

" Fifth o* anything you like, so long as she 




ain't about,** said he, driving in the spade. 
" J Ard as any old doorstep, it is. Never mind, 
we'll turn it over, and we'll get some little 
seedses and some little plantses^ and we 
sha'n't know oursel's." 

" I got a Vpenny," said Dickie, 

11 Well, I'll put one to it, and you peg long 
and buy seedses. That's wot you do." 

Dickie went. He went slowly, because he 
was lame. With his little crutch, made out 
of a worn-out broom cut down to his little 
height, he could manage quite well. 

He found the corn-chandlers — a really 
charming shop, that smek like stables and 
had deep, dusty bins, where he would have 
liked to play. 

"Gimme," said Dickie, leaning against the 
counter and pointing a grimy thumb at 
Perrokeet's Artistic Bird Seed—" gimme a 
penn'orth o' that there ! " 

11 Got the penny ? " the shopman asked, 

Dickie displayed 
it, parted with it, 
and came home 
nursing a paper bag 
full of rustling pro- 

41 Why," said the 
man next door, 
" that ain't seeds. 
It's parrot food, that 

"It said Ar- 
something bird- 
seed/* said Dickie, 
downcast. "1 
thought it J ud come 
into flowers like 
bi rds — same colou rs 
wot the poll 


parrot was, don't- 

cherknow ? M 

"And so it will, 
like as not," said 
the man next door, 
comfortably. " I'll 
set it along this end 
soon's I've got it 
turned over, I lay it'll come 
up something pretty," 

So the seed was sown. 
And the man next door 
promised two more 
pennies, later, for mi/seed. 
Also he transplanted two 
primroses whose faces 
wanted washing. 

It was a grand day for 
Dickie. He told the 

'GlMMfe,' SAitJ DICKIE— *tiIMME A 

whole story of it that night, when he went 
to bed, to his only confidant, from whom he 
hid nothing. The confidant was a blackened 
stick, about five inches long, with little 
blackened bolls to it, like the bells on dogs' 
collars. Dickie had no idea what it was. His 
father had given it to him in the hospital 
where Dickie was taken to say good-bye to 
him. Good-bye had to be said because of 
father having fallen off the scaffolding where he 
was at work, and not getting better, " You 
stick to that," father had said, looking dread- 
fully clean in the strange bed among all 
those other clean beds, "It's yourn— your very 
own. My dad give it to me, and it belonged 
to his dad^ Don't you let anyone take it 
away. Some old lady told the old man it 
'ud bring us luck. So long, old chap." 

Dickie remembered every word of that 
speech, and he kept the treasure. There 
had been another thing with it, tied on with 

string. But Aunt 
Maud had found 
that, and taken it 
away, "to take care 
of/- and he had 
never seen it again. 
It was brassy, with 
a white stone and 
some sort of pattern 
on it, It was a 
baby's rattle. 

" And we shall 'a ve 
the fairest flowers 
of hill and dale," 
said Dickie, whis- 
pering comfortably 
in his dirty sheets, 
"and green sward. 
Oh, Tinkler, dear, 
'twill indeed be a 
fair scene. The 
gayest colours of the 
rainbow amid the 
Agree Able green of 
fresh leaves. I do 
love the man next 
door ! He has, in- 
deed, a 'art of gold," 
That was how 
Dickie talked to his 
friend Tinkler. You 
know how he talked 
to his aunt and the 
man next door, 
■ Dickie, however, had 
learned his second language 
from books. The teacher at 
his school had given him six — - 




"The Children of the New Forest," "Quen- 
tin Durward/' " Here ward the Wake,'" and 
three others, all paper-backed. They made 
a new world for Dickie ; and since the people 
in books talked in this nice, if odd, way — he 
saw no reason why he 
should not — to a friend 
whom he could trust 

Dickie woke, gay as the 
spring sun that was trying 
to look in at him through 
his grimy windows. 

He got up in the dirty, 
comfortless room and 
dressed himself. But in 
the evening he was un- 
dressed by kind, clean 
hands, and washed in a 
big bath half full of hot 
silvery water, with soap 
that smelt like the timber- 
yard at the end of the 
street. Because, going 
along the street, with his 
silly little head full of 
Artistic bird - seed and 
fl o w ers rai n bo w -col ou r ed , 
he had let his crutch slip 
on a banana- skin, and 
had tumbled down* and 
a butchers cart had gone 
over his poor lame foot. 
So they took the hurt 
foot to the hospital, and 
of course he had to go 
with it 

He noticed that the 
nurses and the doctors 
spoke in the kind of 
words that he had found 
in his books, and in a 
voice that he had not 
found anywhere, so when 
on the second day a 
round-faced, smiling lady 
in a white cap said, " Well, Tommy, and 
how are we to-day ? " he replied ; — 

" My name is far from being Tommy, and 
I am in Lux Ury and Af Fluence. I thank 
you, gracious lady." 

At which the lady laughed and pinched 
his cheek. 

When she grew to know him better, and 
found out where he had learned to talk like 
that, she produced more books, and from 
them he learned more new words, They were 
very nice to him at the hospital, but when 
they sent him home they put his lame foot 


sole and iron things that went up his leg. 
And on that first night of his return 
he found that he had been robbed. They 
had taken his Tinkler from the safe corner 
in his bed where the ticking was broken, and 
there was a soft flock nest 
for a boy's best friend. 
He knew better than to 
ask what had become of 
it Instead, he searched 
and searched the house 
in all its five rooms* But 
he never found Tinkler. 
Instead, he found next 
day, when his aunt had 
gone out shopping, a 
little square of cardboard 
at the back of the dresser 
drawer, among the dirty 
dusters and clothes-pegs 
and string and corks and 

It was a pawn-ticket — 
* Rattle. One shilling." 
There was a tangle of 
green growth at the end 
of the garden — and the 
next garden was full of 
weeds, for the man next 
door had gone off to 
look for work. 

A few poor little pink 

andyellow flowers showed 

stunted among the green 

where he had sowed the 

Artistic bird-seed. And, 

hovering high above 

everything else and three 

times as high as Dickie 

himself, there was a 

flower — a great flower, 

like a sunflower f only 

white. "Why/ 1 said 

Dickie, "it's as big as a 


It stood up, beautiful and stately, and 

turned its cream-white face towards the sun. 

"The stalk's like a little tree/ 1 said Dickie, 

It had great, drooping leaves, and a dozen 

smaller white flowers stood out below it on 

long stalks, thinner than that needed to 

support the moon flower itself. 

"It is a moonflower, of course," he said; 
"if the other kind's sunflowers. I love it 
I love it- I love it/ 1 

He did not allow himself much time for 
loving it, however, for he had business in 
hand. He had, somehow or other, to get a 

into a thick boot with a horrid clumpy shilling. Because without a shilling he could 




not exchange that square of cardboard with 
"Rattle" on it for his one friend, Tinkler, 
And with the shilling he could. 

He looked round the yard — dirtier and 
nastier than ever now, in the parts thai the 
man next door had not had time to dig. 
There was certainly nothing there that anyone 
would want to buy — especially now the rabbi t- 
hutch was gone. Except , , , why, of 
course — the moon flowers ! 

He got the old, worn-down knife out of the 
bowl on the back kitchen sink, where it 
nestled among potato-peelings like a blossom 
among foliage, and carefully cut half-a-dozen 
of the smaller flowers. Then he limped up 
to New Cross Station, and stood outside, 
leaning on his crutch, and holding out the 
flowers to the people who came crowding nut 
of the station after the arrival of each train. 
Everybody glanced at them, for they were 
wonderful flowers, as white as water-lilies, 
only flat, the real sunflower shape, and their 
centres were of the purest yellow-gold colour. 

It was no good. Dickie was tired, and 
the flowers were beginning to droop. 
He turned to go home, when a sudden 
thought brought the blood to his face. 
He turned again quickly p and went 
straight to the pawnbroker's. You may 
be quite sure he had learned the address 
on the card by heart. 

He went boldly into the shop, which 
had three handsome gold balls hanging 
out above its door, and in its window all 
sorts of pretty things— rings and chains, 
and brooches and watches, and china 
and silk handkerchiefs, and concertinas, 

" Well , young man," said the stout 
gentleman behind the counter, " what 
can we do for you ? " 

" I want to pawn tny moonflowerSj" 
said Dickie. 

The stout gentleman roared with 
laughter* and slapped a stout leg with 
a stout hand. 

" Well, that's a good 'un ! " he said ; 
*' as good a one as ever I heard. Why, 
you little duffer, they'd be dead long 
before you came back to redeem them, 
that's certain," 

11 You'd have them while they were 
alive * you know," said Dickie, gently. 

t£ What are they ? Don't seem up to 
much, though I don't know that I ever 
saw a flower just like them, come to 
think of it," said the pawnbroker, who 
lived in a neat villa at Brockley, and 
went in for gardening in a gentlemanly 


I( They're moqnfiowers," said Dickie ; 
"and I want to pawn them and then get 
something else out with the money." 

"Got the ticket?" said the gentleman, 
cleverly seeing that he meant "get out of 

u Yes," said Dickie; "and it's my own 
Tinkler that my daddy gave me before he 
died, and my aunt Missa Propagated it when 
I was in hospital." 

The man looked carefully at the card. 

IC All right," he said, at last; "hand over 
the flowers. They are not so bad," he added* 
more willing to praise them now that they 
were his. (Things do look different when 
they are your own, don't they ?) " Here, 
Humphreys, put these in a jug of water till I 
go home* And get this out." 

A pale young man in spectacles appeared 
from a sort of dark cave at the back of the 
shop, took Rowers and ticket, and was 
swallowed up again in the darkness of the 

"Oh, thank you," said Dickie, fervently* 

tiginal from 





" I shall live but to repay your Bount Eous 
generosity. " 

"None of your cheek," said the pawn- 
broker, reddening, and there was an awkward 

" It's not cheek. I mean it," said Dickie, 
at last, speaking very earnestly. " You'll see, 
some of these days. I read an interesting 
Nar Rative about a lion, the king of beasts, 
and a mouse, that small and Ty Morous 
animal, which, if you have not heard it, I 
will now Pur Seed to relite." 

"You're a rum little kid, I don't think," 
said the stout gentleman. "Where do you 
learn such talk ? " 

"It's the wye they talks in books," said 
Dickie, suddenly returning to the language 
of his aunt " You bein' a toff, I thought you'd 
unnerstand. My mistike. No 'fence." 

" Mean to say you can talk like a book 
when you like, and cut it off short like 

"I can Con-vers like lords and lydies," 
said Dickie, in the accents of the gutter, 
"and your noble benefacteriness made me 
seek to express my feelinks with the best 
words at me Com Mand." 

"Fond of books?" 

"I believe you," said Dickie, and there 
were no more awkward pauses. 

When the pale young man came back with 
something wrapped in a bit of clean rag, he 
said a whispered word or two to the pawn- 
broker, who unrolled the rag and looked 
closely at the rattle. 

"So it is," he said, "and it's a beauty too, 
let alone anything else." 

" Isn't he ? " said Dickie, touched by this 
praise of his treasured Tinkler. 

" I have something else here that's got 
the same crest as your rattle. Here, Hum- 
phreys," he added, "give it a rub up, and 
bring that seal here." 

The pale young man did something to 
Tinkler with some pinky powder, a brush, 
and a wash-leather, while his master fitted 
together the two halves of a broken white 

" It came out of a seal," he said, " and I 
don't mind making you a present of it." 

"Oh," said Dickie, "you are a real right 
'un" — and he rested his crutch against the 
counter expressly to clasp his hands in 
ecstasy, as boys in books did. 

" My young man shall stick it together 
with cement," the pawnbroker went on, "and 
put it in a little box. Don't you take it out 
till to-morrow, and it'll be stuck fast. Only 
don't go trying to seal with it, or the sealing- 

wax will melt the cement. It'll bring you 
luck, I shouldn't wonder." 

(It did ; and such luck as the kind pawn- 
broker never dreamed of. But that comes 
farther on in the story.) 

Dickie left the shop without his moon- 
flowers, indeed, but with his Tinkler now 
whitely shining and declared to be "real 
silver, and mind you take care of it, my 
lad," his white cornelian seal carefully packed 
in a strong little cardboard box with metal 
corners. Also a broken-backed copy of 
" Ingoldsby Legends," and one of Mrs. 
Markham's English History, which had no 
back at all. "You must go on trying to 
improve your mind," said the pawnbroker, 
fussily, He was very pleased with himself 
for having been so kind. " And come back 
and see me — say next month." 

"I will," said Dickie. "A thousand bless- 
ings from a grateful heart. I will come back. 
I say, you are good ! Thank you — thank 
you. I will come back next month." 

But next month found Dickie in a very 
different place from the pawnbroker's shop, 
and with a very different person from the 
pawnbroker, who, in his rural retirement at 
Brockley, gardened in such a gentlemanly way. 

Dickie went home — his aunt was still out 
His books told him that treasure is best 
hidden under loose boards, unless, of course, 
your house has a secure panel, which his had 
not. There was a loose board in his room, 
where the man " saw to " the gas. He got it 
up, and pushed his treasures as far in as he 
could — along the rough crumbly surface of 
the lath and plaster. 

Not a moment too soon. For before the 
board was coaxed quite back into its place 
the voice of the aunt screamed up. 

" Come along down, can't you ? I can hear 
you pounding about up there. Come along 
down and fetch me a ha'porth o' wood, I 
can't get the kettle to boil without a fire, can 

When Dickie came down his aunt slightly 
slapped him, and he took the halfpenny and 
limped off obediently. It was a very long 
time indeed before he came back. 

Because before he got to the shop with no 
window to it, but only shutters that were put 
up at night, where the wood and coal were 
sold, he saw a Punch and Judy show. He 
had never seen one before, and it interested 
him extremely. He longed to see it unpack 
itself and display its wonders, and he followed 
it through more streets than he knew, and 
when he found that it was not going to 
unpack at all, bat was just going home to its 




bed in an old coach-house, he remembered 
the firewood; and the halfpenny, clutched 
tight and close in his hand, seemed to 
reproach him warmly. 

He looked about him, and knew that he 
did not at all know where he was. There was 
a tall, thin, ragged man lounging against a 
stable-door in the yard where the Punch and 
Judy show lived. He took his clay pipe out 
of his mouth to say : — 

" What's up, matey? Lost your way ?" 

Dickie explained. 

" It's Lavender Terrace where I live," he 
ended; " Lavender Terrace, Rosemary Street, 

14 I'm going that way myself," said the man, 
getting away from the door. " Us'll go back by 
the boat if yer like. Ever been on the boat ? " 

" No," said Dickie. 

"Like to?" 

" Don't mind if I do," said Dickie. 

It was very pleasant with the steamboat 
going along in such a hurry, pushing the 
water out of the way, and puffing and blowing, 
and something beating inside it like a giant's 
heart. The wind blew freshly, and the 
ragged man found a sheltered corner behind 
the funnel. It was so sheltered, and the 
wind had been so strong, that Dickie felt 
sleepy. When he said, " 'Ave I bin asleep ? " 
the steamer was stopping at a pier at a grange 
place with trees. 

" Here we are ! " said the man. " 'Ave you 
been asleep? Not 'arf! Stir yourself, my 
man ; we get off 'ere." 

"Is this Deptford?" Dickie asked; and 
the people, shoving and crushing to get off 
the steamer, laughed when he said it. 

" Not azackly," said the man ; " but it's all 
right. This 'ere's where we get off. You 
ain't 'ad yer tea yet, my boy." 

It was the most glorious tea Dickie had 
ever imagined. Fried eggs and bacon — he 
had one egg and the man had three ; bread 
and butter — and if the bread was thick so 
was the butter ; and as many cups of tea as 
you liked to say "Thank you " for. When it 
was over the man asked Dickie if he could 
walk a little way, and when Dickie said he 
could they set out in the most friendly way 
side by side. 

" I like it very much, and thank you 
kindly," said Dickie, presently, "and the tea 
and all, and the egg. And this is the 
prettiest place ever I see. But I ought to be 
gettin' 'ome. I shall catch it a fair treat as it 
is. She was waitin' for the wood to boil the 
kettle when I come out." 
" xMother ? " 

Digitized by Google 

" Aunt. Not me real aunt. Only I calls 
her that." 

" She any good ? " 

" Ain't^ bad when she's in a good temper." 

" That" ain't what she'll be in when you 
gets back. Seems to me you've gone and 
done it, mate. Why, it's hours and hours 
since you and me got acquainted. Look, 
the sun's just going." 

It was, over trees more beautiful than any- 
thing Dickie had ever seen, even in Greenwich 
Park, for they were now in a country road, 
with green hedges and grass growing beside 
it, in which little, round-faced flowers grew. 
Daisies they were, even Dickie knew that 

" I got to stick it," said Dickie, sadly. 
" Fd best be getting home." 

" I wouldn't go 'ome not if I was you," 
said the man. " I'd go out and see the 
world a bit, I would." 

" What— me ? " said Dickie. 

" Why not ? Come, I'll make you a fair 
offer. You come alonger me an' see life ! 
I'm a-goin* to tramp as far as Brighton and 
back, all alongside the sea. Ever seed the 

" No," said Dickie, " oh, no— no, I never." 

" Well, you come alonger me. I ain't 'it 
yer, 'ave I, like what yer aunt do ? I give you 
a ride in a pleasure boat, only you went to 
sleep, and I give you a tea fit for a hemperor, 
ain't I?" 

" You 'ave that," said Dickie. 

" Well, that'll show you the sort of man I 
am. So now I make you a fair offer. You 
come longer me, and be my little 'un, and 111 
be your daddy, an' a better dad, I lay, nor if 
I'd been born so. What do you say, matey?" 

The man's manner was so kind and hearty ; 
the whole adventure was so wonderful and 
new. " Is it country where you're going to ? " 
said Dickie, looking at the green hedge. 

" All the way, pretty near," said the man. 
" We'll tramp it, taking it easy, all round the 
coast, where gents go for their outings. 
They've always got a bit to spare then. I lay 
you'll get some colour in them cheeks o' 
yours. They're like putty now. Come, now, 
what you say ? Is it a bargain ? " 

" It's very kind of you," said Dickie, " but 
what call you got ter do it ? It'll cost a lot 
— my victuals, I mean. What call you got 
to do it?" 

The man scratched his head, and hesitated. 
Then he looked up at the sky, and then down 
at the road— they were resting on a heap of 

At last he said, " You're a sharp lad, you 
are — bloom in' sharp. Well, I won't deceive 



ii i 

you, rnatey. I want company. Tramping 
alone ain't no beano to me. An' as I gets 
my living by the sweat of charitable ladies 
an 1 gents, it don't do no harm to 'ave a littie 
nipper alongside. They comes down 'and- 
somer if there's a nipper. An' I like nippers. 
Some blokes don't, but I do/' 

Dickie felt that this was true. But "We'll 
be beggars, you mean?" he said, doubtfully. 

"Qh, don't call names," said the man. 
" We'll take the road, an* if kind people gives 
us a helping hand, well, so much the better 
for all parties, if wot they learnt me at Sun- 
day school's any good. Well, 
there it is, Take it or leave 

The sun shot long golden 
beams through the gaps in 
the hedge. A bird paused 
in its flight on a branch quite 
close, and clung there sway- 
ing — a real live bird. Dickie 
thought of the kitchen at 
home — the lampthat smoked, 
the dirty table, the fender full 
of ashes and greasy paper, 
the dry bread that tasted 
of mice, and the water 
out of the broken 
earthenware cup. That 
would be his breakfast* 
when he had gone to 
bed crying after 
his aunt had 
slapped him, 

"I'll come," 
said be, " and 
thank vou kindly/' 

u Mind you/' 
said the man, 
carefully, "this 
ain't no kidnap- 
ping- I ain't J ticed 
you away. You 
come on yourown 
free wish, eh ? " 

"Oh, yes/' 

"Can you 

"Yes," said 
Dickie, * ( if I got 
a pen." 

"I got a pencil \ hold on a bit/ J He took 
out of his pocket a new envelope, a new 
sheet of paper, and a new pencil, ready 
sharpened by machinery. It almost looked, 
Dickie thought, as though he had brought 
them out for some special purpose. Perhaps 
he had. 


" Now," said the man } "you take an J write. 
Make it flat agin the sole of me boot/ 1 He 
lay face downward on the road and turned 
up his boot, as though boots wrre the most 
natural writing-desks in the world. 

" Now write what I say : ' Mr, tteale. Dear 
Sir, — Will you please take me on tramp with 
you ? I p ave no father nor yet mother to be 
uneasy l {Can you spell uneasy ? That's right 
You are a scholar !), 'an' I asks you to let me 
come alonger you/ (Got that ? All right, I'll 
stop a bit till you catch up. Then you say) 
'If you take me along I promise to give 
you all what I earns or gets any- 
how, and be a good boy, and do 
what you say. An' I shall be very 
glad if you will — Your 
obedient servant 5 — what's 
your name, eh?" 
"Dickie Harding." 
"Get it wrote down, 
then. Done ? I'm glad I 
wasn't born a table to be 
wrote on. Don't it make 
yer legs stiff, neither ! " 
He rolled over, took the 
paper and read it 
-, , slowly and difficultly, 
then he folded it and 
put it in his pocket. 
"Now we're 
square," he said ; 
"that'll stand true 
and legal in any 
police-court in Eng- 
land, that will. An' 
don't you forget it." 
To the people who 
live in lavender Terrace 
the words " police-court " 
are very alarming 

Dickie turned a little 
paler, and said, " Why 
police? I ain't done 
nothing wrong writin' 
what you telled me?" 
" No, my boy," said the man, " you 
ain't done no wrong. You done right. 
But there's bad people in the world, 
police and such, as might lay it up to 
me as I took you away against your 
They could put a man away for less 
than that/' 

"But it ain't agin my will," said Dickie. 
" I want to/ 1 

"That's what /say," said the man, cheer- 
fully, " so no.w . we're agreed upon it- If 
you'll step 'iiPWPfl' ISA" about a doss for 





to-night, and to-morrow we'll sleep in the 
bed with the green curtains." 

" I see that there in a book," said Dickie, 
charmed. " He Reward the Wake, the last of 
the English, and I wunnered what it stood 

" It stands for laying out," said the 
man (and so it does, though that's not at all 
what the author of " Hereward " meant it to 
mean) ; " laying out under a 'edge or a 'ay- 
stack, or such, and lookin' up at the stars 
till you goes by-by. An' jolly good business 
too, this weather. An' then you 'oofs it a 
bit, and resties a bit, and someone gives you 
something to 'elp you along the road, and in 
the evening you 'as a glass of ale at the 
Publy Kows, and finds another set o' green 
bed curtains. And on Saturday you gets in 
a extra lot of grog, and on Sunday you 
stavs where you be and washes of your 

" Do you have adventures ?" asked Dickie, 
recognising in this description a rough sketch 
of the life of a modern knight-errant. 

"Ventures? I believe you," said the man. 
" Why, only last month a brute of a dog bit 
me on the leg at a back door down Sutton 
way. And once I see a elephant." 

" Wild ? " asked Dickie, thrilling. 

"Not azackly wild — with a circus 'e was. 
But big ! ' Wild ones ain't 'arf the size, I lay. 
And you meets soldiers and parties in red 
coats ridin' on horses with spotty dawgs — 
and motors as run you down and take your 
'ead off afore you know you're dead if you 
don't look alive. Ventures ? I should think 

" Ah ! " said Dickie, and a full silence 
fell between them. 

" Tired ? " said Mr. Beale, presently 

"Just a tiddy bit, perhaps," said Dickie, 
bravely, " but I can stick it." 

" We'll get sum mat with wheels for you 
to-morrow," said the man, "if it's only a 
sugar- box ; an' I can tie that leg o' yours up 
to make it look like as if it was cut off." 

" It's this 'ere nasty boot as makes me 
tired," said Dickie. 

" Hoff with it," said the man, obligingly. 
" Down you sets on them stones and hoff 
with it. T'other too, if you like. You can 
keep to the grass." 

The dewy grass felt pleasantly cool and 
clean to Dickie's tired little foot, and when 
they crossed the road where a water-cart had 
dripped it was delicious to feel the cool mud 
squeeze up between your toes. That was 

charming — but it was pleasant, too, to wash 
the mud off on the wet grass. Dickie always 
remembered that moment. It was the first 
time in his life that he really enjoyed being 
clean. In the hospital you were almost too 
clean, and you didn't do it yourself. That 
made all the difference. Yet it was the 
memory of the hospital that made him say, 
" I wish I could 'ave a bath." 

"So you shall," said Mr. Beale, "a reg'lar 
wash all over — this very night. I always like 
a wash meself. Some blokes think it pays to 
be dirty ; but it don't. If you're clean they 
say ' Honest poverty,' an' if you're dirty they 
say 'Serve you right.' We'll get a pail or 
something this very night" 

" You are good," said Dickie. " I do like 

Mr. Beale looked at him through the 
deepening twilight — rather queerly, Dickie 
thought. Also he sighed heavily. 

" Oh, well, all's well as has no turning ; 
and things don't always . . . What I mean 
to say— you be a good boy and I'll do the 
right thing by you." 

" I know you will," said Dickie, with 
enthusiasm. "/ know 'ow good you are ! " 

" Bless me ! " said Mr. Beale, uncomfort- 
ably. " Well — there ! Step out, sonny, or 
we'll never get there this side Christmas." 

Now you see that Mr. Beale may be a 
cruel, wicked man, who only wants to get 
hold of Dickie so as to make money out of 
him, and he may be going to be very unkind 
indeed to Dickie when once he gets him 
away into the country and is all alone with 
him. His having that paper and envelope 
and pencil all ready looks odd, doesn't it? 
Or he may be a really benevolent person. 
Well, you'll know all about it presently. 

"And here we are," said Mr. Beale, 
stopping in a side street at an open door, 
from which yellow light streamed welcomingly. 
"Now mind you don't conterdict anything 
wot I say to people. And don't you forget 
you're my nipper, and you got to call me 
< daddy.'" 

" I'll call you • father,' " said Dickie. " I got 
a daddy of my own, you know." 

" Why," said Mr. Beale, stopping suddenly, 
" you said he was dead." 

" So he is," said Dickie, " but 'e's my daddy 
all the same." 

"Oh — come on," said Mr. Beale, im- 
patiently. And they went in. 


To be continued. ) 




Author of " The Canterbury Puzzles : and Other Curious Problems" etc. 

\ **** >v 

— \ — 1/ / N 

H\ / 

HOW tO iolTC 


1 Papa's Puzzle." 

N the article that appeared in 
this magazine last month, the 
first puzzle that readers were 
invited to solve was admittedly 
of a very elementary character. 
The interest in the puzzle of 
Ahmes, the Egyptian priest of 1700 B.C., lies 
wholly in its great antiquity. The answer to 
it is obviously i6f£. 

The very simple solution to "Papa's Puzzle" 
is this : — 

Fix your B a c 

card on a piece 
of paper and 
draw the equi- 
lateral triangle 
B C F, B F 
and C F being 
equal to B C 
Also mark off 
the point G, 
so that D G 
shall equal 
D C Draw 

the line C G and continue it until it cuts the 
line B F at H. If we now make H A parallel 
to B E, then A is the point from which our 
cut must be made to the corner D, as indi- 
cated by the dotted line. Now the position 
of the point A is quite independent of 
the length of the side C D. This is the 
curious (act to which I alluded last month. 
It will be found that the two cards in the 
illustration were of the same length, so all that 
the child had to do in such a case was to mark 
off the point A at precisely the same distance 
from the top left-hand corner on the second 
card. It was thus quite an infantile problem. 
The six solutions to " Alcuin's Puzzle" are 
as follows, where the three numbers in each 
group represent the respective numbersof men, 
women, and children : 17, 5, 78 ; 14, 10, 76 ; 
". I5> 74 ; 8, 20, 72 ; 5, 25, 70 ; 2, 30, 68. 
Here is one way of solving " Tartaglia's 
Measuring Puzzle." Fill the n and the 5 
and pour the remaining 8 into the 13. 
Empty the 11 and 5 into the 24, Transfer 
the 8 from the 13 to the 11. Fill the 13 from 
the 24. Fill the 5 from the 13. Empty the 
5 into the 24. Now the three largest vessels 
contain each 8oz, of balsam. 

Vol. xxxvii.— 15. 

To solve a seven-ring "Tiring Irons" 
takes 85 moves (taking off or putting on 
a ring being a move), or 64 moves if 
we drop or put on the first two rings in 
one move. 

The four weights in " Bachet's Puzzle " that 
will enable one to weigh any number of 
pounds from ilb. up to 401b. are ilb>, 31b., 
gib., and 271b. There is no other solution 
with so few as four weights. 

The following diagrams will show how the 
dishonest servant arranged the bottles in 
Bachet's " Wine-Bins Puzzle " so as to steal 
four bottles on each of four occasions. 




















44 Bottles 



















How the wine bottles were itolen. 

If you give the " Fifteen Schoolgirls " the 
numbers 1 to 15 they can be grouped in the 
following manner for the seven days : — 

1st day 
2nd day 
3rd day 
4th day 
5th day 
6th day 
7th day 

15 I 2 

11 10 14 


13 8 6 

IS 3 4 13 12 2 

9 6 14 

1 10 8 

15 5 6 

1 14 4 

11 8 2 

3 12 10 

15 7 8 


13 10 4 

5 U 12 

15 9 ioi 5 4 8 

1 12 6 

7 2 14 

15 u i2| 7 6 10 

3 14 8 

9 4 2 

15 13 14 

9 8 12 

5 2 10 

11 6 4 

3 5 9 
5 7 11 
7 9 13 
9 11 1 

11 13 3 

13 1 5 

1 3 7 

Note the way that the odd numbers and 
the even numbers descend cyclically. 

It will be seen in the following diagram 
how I place the three queens, rook, and 
bishop, so that every square of the chess- 
board .shall be either attacked or occupied. 



The moves in 
the " Hat -Peg 
Puzzle ,p will also 
be made quite 
clear by a refer- 
ence to the dia- 
grams, which 
show the position 
on the board 
after each of the 
four moves. The 
darts indicate 
the successive 
removals that 

E-Vtry Square is attacLcd. 01 occupied. 

Hit-Pea Punic/ 

have been made. It will be seen that at 
every sfc^ge all the squares are either attacked 
or occupied, and that after the fourth move no 
queen attacks any other. In the case of the 
last move the queen in the top row might 
also have been moved one square farther to 
the left This is ? I believe, the only solution 
to the puzzle, 

I think it will suffice in the case of the 
"Three Sheep T ' if I state that there are forty-- 
seven different ways of placing the sheep. If 
the reader should think he has discovered 
more he will find that he has fallen into the 
error of including reflections or reversals. 

To solve the " Railway Puzzle " we 
will call the car on the lefL L and the 
one on the right R. Push R up to A. 
Then bring the engine round, push L 
down tu R, couple all up, return to 
main line, and leave R where the engine 
originally stood. Now take L back to 
the siding and push it down to A, 
leaving it there. Next fetch R and 
leave it on the left siding, Finally go 
round to the right siding, pull L into 
its place, and return engine to its 
original position- 

The secret of the " Dissected Chess- 
board' 1 paradox lies in 
the simple fact that the 
edges produced by the 
cuts do not exactly 
coincide in direction. In 
other words p the pieces 
in the oblong "do not 
fit." If you put them 
carefully together (as in 
the first example given) 
you will find that when 
the sides of the figure are 
at right angles there lies 
along the diagonal an un- 
covered space like ar. 
attenuated diamond. This 
space is exactly equal in 
area to the supposed extra 
square. Therefore from 
the apparent sixty - five 
squares you have to deduct 
one, leaving the correct 
sixty- four, In the case of 
the second example the 
conditions are, of course, 
reversed. Here the pieces, 
if properly put together, 
overlap, the overlapping 
parts being again exactly 
■■ equal to one Square. 

I give the solution to 
the " Mitre Puzzle M that is generally accepted 
as satisfactory. We are asked to assume 
that the two portions containing the same 
letter— A A, BB, CC, DD— are joined by "a 
mere hair," and are, therefore, only one piece. 

THs tipUuj he tWcwdqiptteiy- 



The usual answer to the " Mitre 

But to the geometrician this is absurd, and 
the four shares are not equal in area unless 
they consist of two pieces each. If you 
make them equal in area they will not be 

exactly alike in 

In the " Match 
Puzzle," hold your 
fourth match be- 
tween the pair that 
are joined together 
and the single one 
that acts as a prop. 
If you now carefully 
press against the 
pair until the single 
one falls on the 
match you are holding, you can then so raise 
it that it gets caught in the fork of the pair, 
and all three may be lifted together. 

The annexed diagram will make the solu- 
tion to "Tait's Counter Puzzle" quite clear. 
First, remove the two counters from 2, 3 to 
positions 9, 10. Second, remove from 5, 6 
to 2, 3. Third, remove from 8, 9 to 5, 6. 
Fourth, remove from positions 1, 2 to 


Solution to M Tait's Puzzle.** 

positions 8, 9. All the whites and all the 
blacks are now together. 

The " Leap-Frog Puzzle " is, of course, 
solved as follows : 4-5, 6-4, 7-6, 5-7, 3~5> 2 3> 
4-2, 6.4, 8-6, 7-8, 5-7, 3.5, 1-3, 2-1, 4-2, 6-4, 
5-6, 3-5, 4-3. The numbers indicate through 
out the squares, not the draughts. We thus 

Solution to M Leap-Frog Puzzle.** 

require nineteen moves, if the last move is 
considered necessary under the conditions. 

To solve the little " Heart Puzzle," pass 
the loop down the upper central hole, up 
the lower central hole, and over the bead. 
The string can then be pulled out. 

The mystery of the Dovetailed Block is 
made clear by the illustration. It will be 
seen at once how the two pieces slide 
together in a diagonal direction. 

If there are only eight discs in the 
"Tower of Hanoi," then the puzzle may 
be solved in 255 moves ; but if there are 
sixty -four discs, as in M. de Parville's 
legend, then it is a more serious matter, 
for the Brahmins will require no fewer than 

18,446,744,073,709,551,615 moves. I will 
leave the reader the task of computing how 
many thousands of millions of years the 
business would take, assuming no mistakes 
were made. 

In the case of " The Spider and Fly," if 
you imagine a cardboard box to be the room, 

30 4k. 


12 ft. - 
•• SPIOtR 





The route in " Spider and Fly Puzzle. 

and you cut the sides and lay them out flat 
on the table, as shown in the illustration, the 
shortest route will be the direct one indicated 
by the dotted line. This is exactly 40ft. in 
length, and passes over five of the six sides 
of the room. Now fold the box up, remov- 
ing first the side that the spider does not 
traverse, and you will see the somewhat 
remarkable course that the spider takes. Of 
course, it will be obvious to every reader that, 
since the spider never leaves the sides of the 
room, the spreading of those sides out flat 

makes no differ- 
ence whatever to 
the conditions of 
the problem. 

Mr. Loyd has 
never, I believe, 
published his 
solution to the 
"Get Off the 
Earth Mystery." I 
have seen various 
accounts of what 
humorously pur- 
ported to be solu- 
tions from his 
pen, but they were 
clearly devised to 
leave the innocent 
reader more per- 
plexed than ever. 

:wht tiKKhn 

How t 



give my own account 
of the underlying 
principle. If the 
reader will look at 
Diagram i he will see 
13 posts on a card. 
If we cut the card, 
as indicated by the 
diagonal line,andslide 
the two pieces into 
the position in Dia 
gram 2, it will be seen 
that there are fewer 
posts by one, though 
we cannot cor- 
rectly state that 
any particular 
post has disap- 
peared. It is true 
there are now 
only 1 2 posts, but 
each post has 
gained a twelfth 
part of a post in 

There are 1 3 potts 

length. Now look 
at Diagram 3, 
which represents 
a revolving disc 
on a square card, 
with the 13 posts 
arranged spirally 
round the edge 
of the disc. If 
the button is 
moved up, as in 

Diagram 4, there are fewer posts by one. 

But, as before, every post is now a twelfth 

of a post longer. This is the principle on 

which the puzzle is built, and the reader will 

now be better able to 

appreciate the remark- 
able cleverness of the 

original drawing, in 

which the inventor 

had to deal with the 

complexities of heads, 

legs, and arms. 
Mr. Loyd's " Chain 

Puzzle" I simplified 

in order to show a 

pretty little principle 

that I think he was 

first to point out. 

There were 13 pieces 

of chain, contain- 
ing respectively 

There are now only 1 2. 

There are now only 12. 

Solution to M Triangle and Square,' 

12,8,8,6,8, 7,8,7, 
8, 5, 7, 9 and 7 links, 
making 100 in all 
smith would, beyond 
a doubt, open 13 
links in order to join 
the pieces into one 
endless chain. It 
would never occur to 
him that by opening 
every link in the 12- 
link piece, he could 
use these 12 links to 
join up the 12 remaining pieces, thus saving a 
penny. But we can do better than that. If 
we break up the 2 pieces containing 5 and 
6 links, we can use these n links to join up 
the remaining 1 1 pieces. Thus the correct 
charge should be 11 pence and not 13 pence. 
If there were 3 pieces out of 13 containing 
together 10 links, the charge should be 
10 pence ; if 4 pieces containing together 
9 links, the charge should be 9 pence ; and 
so on. 

In presenting the " Triangle and Square" 
I showed the actual shapes of the four pieces 
and how they fitted together. But many 
readers will doubtless want to know how to 
find the directions of the cuts. I will show 
that it is quite easy "when you know how," 
though it was extremely difficult to discover 
in the first place. Divide two of the sides of 
. the triangle in the middle at D and E ; draw 
the line A to F through E, making E F equal 
toEB; half-way between A and F — that is, 
G— place the point of your compasses and 
draw the arcAHF; continue the line E B 
to H and from E describe the arc H J ; 
finally, draw the line E J and drop the perpen- 
diculars D L and K M on the line E J. If you 
have done this accurately the puzzle is solved 

In "Catching the 
Mice," the smallest 
number that the cat 
can count round and 
round the circle, start 
ingat the white mouse 
and making that one 
the third eaten, is 100. 
The number 1,000 
would also do, and 
there are just seventy- 
two other numbers 
between these that 
the cat might employ 
with equal success; 
but she would select 
the smallest 


[ We shall be glad to receive Coniribuiiens to this section^ and to pay for such as are accepted*] 
Copyright, iqcjS, by George Newncs, Limited. 

S this a record in curd towers? It com- 
prises no fewer thai) forty storeys and 
stood over eight feet six inches in heigh t, 
being built with two hundred and forty-two 
ordinary playing cards. As will be seen s 



A CHEQUE drawn on a piece of ordinary slate stone is 
surely something of a novelty. The example here 
shown, being stamped and correctly drawn* when presented 
At the bank was duly paid. The only complaint was that the 
bank officials would have some difficulty in filing the document ! 
Photograph by H. Ex ton, Petersburg, Transvaal.— Mr, J. A* 
Biccard, RO* Box 2&, Pietcrsburg, Trans vaaL 


I AM sending you a photograph, which I should think is 
unique* of a one armed man who may be seen stoking at 
the Michael Pit of the Wemyss Coal Company, Limited. He 
is quite a small man, hut has been, leading fireman for several 
years. He had the misfortune to lose his arm in some 
machinery. — Mr. V. Sand ford, East Wemyss, Fife. 

9 V 



¥ ' ' 

* JF ■ ' 


■ ¥ > 1 


r ^ •"■ 9^ 1 

SLl" 1- 




it was built in the open, hut, of course, 
on a day when there was not a breath 
of wind moving. — Mr* W. B, Gardner j- 
139, Lee Road, Blackheath, S.E* 


HAVING seen several optical illu- 
sions in recent numt>ers of The 
St kan i), it occurred to me to send you 
this one. Which is (he larger of the two 
small ellipses? I think almost every- 
one at first would *ay that the bottom 
one is larger than the one inside the big 
ellipse, though when they are measured 
they will he found to be the same size. 
— Mr. C. Clay, 40, Alberta Street, 
Florence, Longton, Staffs. 





IN this photograph may be seen a set of various 
kinds of chains, all of which have been cut out 
of solid pieces of wood. Each chain, as you see it in 
the photograph, is one piece of wood t and has been 
carved with an old cobbler's knife. If you look ai 
the left-hand one close I)' you will see that it has two 
small balls inside the links, and each hall has a little 
wooden marble carved in the cenire. Looking again, 
ynu will see a hunch of keys ; there are thiiteen of 
ihern on a ring, and no two keys are alike. These 
also have been cut out of a solid piece of wood* At 
the bottom of the photograph you will see a hall on a 
stand j with another ball carved inside, and inside that 

again a wooden marble* AH this has been done from 
one piece of wood* The three specimens at the lop 
right hand corner— scissors, pliers, and pincers— are 
of four pieces to allow for the joining. This work 
was the favourite hobby of my father, who died last 
year.— Miss R. H. SulclirTe, 75, Hebble Terrace, 
Bradford Road, II udders field. 


THE "Mengeleusha," or *' slippery place," near 
Kuala Kangsar, Perak, Federated Malay Slates, 
is a solid piece of granite s about seventy or eighty feet 
long, standing in a stream of water and forming a sort 
of waterfall. The water flowing down this rock makes 
11 as slippery a* glass, and the amusement is to slide 
down the rock and splash into the pool *l>erseath. 
There are a great number of leeches about, which 
cling to one like anything! This snapshot shows 
an Englishman half-way down the slide. — Miss V\\ 
Sanderson, Maison Dieu, Richmond, Yorks, 


T T ERE is a view of 
JT^L P art °f lne beach 
at East London, Cape 
Colony, showing the 
result of the wreck of 
the Valdividj which 
came ashore here and 
broke up. She had a 
cargo of paraffin oil, 
and as far as the eye 
could see the beach was 
strewn with oil tins, 
and presented a curious 
and wonderful sight- 
It is interesting to know 
that some of the tins of 
oil were picked up as 
far down the coast as 
Fish River, near Port 
E 1 iza bet h * — M r . Cecil 
A. Falconer, Eire 
Station, East London, 
Cape Colony. 




*THIE phoU>graph here reproduced should interest 
X, a large number of amateur photographers, who 
may [ike to try their skill in com posing other groups 
in this style, The monks in tny picture are made of 
china and* as may be seen, are very good models, 
while the various accessories are home -made, The 
arrangement of tbe group naturally look some time, 
but the final result was some compensation for the 
trouhte expended, — Mr. Sydney H- Carr, Arkleby, 
Su Ives, Cornwall, 


THE primitive grinding machine here shown, the 
work of a Norwegian sailor, lias a most interest- 

made rough by means of a number of holes 
hammered in it, Tbe roughed tin is crossed at 
regular intervals with hands of wire to correspond 
with the roller running through the machine, 
which also is cover ed with roughed metal and 
bands of wire. The little machine only measures 
about eighteen inches long by four inches high, 
and may be seen on application at the Sailors' 
Institute, Falmouth. — Miss Catherine M. Fox, 
4], Market Slieel, Kalmouth, 


^T doubt most of our readers have seen vege- 
l table marrows bearing some inscription like 
the following, though few know how the lettering is 
produced. Yet it is a comparatively easy matter to 
teach these vegetables to write. With an awl or any 
other sharp- pointed instrument trace the desired 
inscription in a fine flowing band, one-sixteenth of an 
inch deep, in the skin of a young marrow, taking care 
in the upstrokes to keep the awl upright, thus 
ensuring that the skin is not disturbed beyond the 
o Lit line of the writing. The marrow docs the rest. 
With infinite patience it will embroider the traced 
words with a raised thread of while tissue, which 
stands out very distinctly. The marrow here shown, 
which w^is- twenty three inches long and twenty-two 
pounds in weight, was grown by Sir. J. C\ Green, 
of SnUnn Culdrield. 

mg history, Some years ago a large 
sailing vessel with a cargo of wheat ran 
short of provisions and the crew found 
themselves face to face with starvation. 
But this crisis was the means of bringing 
into play ihe ingenuity of one of the crew. 
Remembering the wheat with which the 
1 nd was loaded, be set to work and 
constructed this primitive though effective 
grinding machine* With it lie was enabled 
to grind enough of the grain to keep the 
twenty -six sailors alive for forty days. The 
case of the machine is made from a piece 
of solid wood hollowed out in the centre. 
This hollow is lined with pieces of tin 





T will pro- 
bably puzzle 
readers of The 
Strand to say 
what ibis pic- 
ture represents. 
Though it looks 
tiki re like a broc- 
coli than any- 
thing else, it is 
really the head 
of a pin (many 
times magnified) 

in which seven diamonds have been set. This 
difficult piece of work was done without the 
aid of a magnifying- glass, — Mr. A, Parker, 27 1, 
Rookery Road, Hands* orth. 

^T^IIIS charming and interesting picture 
J possesses a very peculiar power. A lady 
had a large framed copy hung in her sit ting -re jour 
Soon after hanging the picture she began lo 
notice a peculiar thing about it ; ever}- time she 
looked at it she would experience a strong desire 
to gape, Unconsciously she would proceed to 

imitate it \ then she would catch herself and desist. 
This lady had a great man)' callers, and she watched 
to see what effect the picture would have on her 
friends. Almost every one who looked at the picture 
was affected in the same way, and would straightway 
proceed to yawn and gape. Look at the picture 
yourself for a minute ur two and see if you are not 
susceptible to its strange power. — Mr, C A. Swingle, 
1,311, E* Broadway Street, Lincoln, 


LAST summer we noticed an extraordinary 
instance of plant growth, illustrating the great 
strength and hardiness of the ordinary plantain leaf. 
During the course of some experiments we con- 
structed a pitch flour as follows- The ground was 
scraped, and then a three inch layer of sand was 
spread over it, and on this sand a two inch layer of 
soft roofing pilch was placed. This had been down 
for several weeks when we noticed one part of the 
pilch breaking open like a miniature volcano. On 
examination we found some green shoots coming 
through the pilch. The shoots continued to grow in 
spile of the great heal caused by the sun shining on 
the black surface of the pitch. They finally assumed 
the flourishing condition shown in the above 
photograph. It should be added that before laying 
the sand a sheet of heavy tar paper covered the 
ground, as will be seen from the sectional plan here 
reproduced. — Mr. A. G. Worralt, 6,933, Hegernmn 
Street, Tacony, Philadelphia, I J a., U.S.A. 


r l^HIS solution, although not the only one, is 
X selected for its order and symmetry. It is in 
five sections, and ihe studv of the play in these is 
interesting* The num tiers of the moves in the sections 
ure 8, ; t it, 7, and 22, total 55 moves. Sections 
2 and 4 are identical. 

9 to 10 

6 tq 


6 ID 

10 8 to 


7 lo 10 

15 i*. 10 

II » 9 

6 „ 


3 m 

6 6 ., 


4 „ 7 

19 m 15. 

13 „ 11 

9 „ 


6 „ 

3 9 ,. 


9 m 4 

12 „ 19 

10 . 13 

11 .. 


2 „ 

6 11,. 



a „ 12 

12 .. 10 

14 „ 


9 .. 

2 14 m 


16 „ II 

1 - a 

a .. 12 

12 w 


M .. 

9 12 „ 


13 „ 16 

5 „ 1 

5 „ a 

10 .. 


IS .. 

It \Q „ 


10 .. 13 

10 . 5 

10 „ 5 

14 „ 

17 „ 
12 „ 
10 „ 


7 „ 10 15 „ 10 
9 ,. 7; 12 _ 15 

11 ,. 9j a „ 12 
10 „ 11! 10 . a 


These moves can be played in reverse order, and 
many transpositions arf: possible. 


C^ f\r\n\{> Original from 



{fre page 127.) 




XXX VI 1. 

FEBRUARY, 1909. 

No. 218. 

The White Prophet. 


[The reader who has not followed the previous portions of this story can readily understand and enjoy 
. the following most thrilling and dramatic chapters by simply bearing in mind that Colonel Gordon 

\ Lord, who is in love with Helena, the daughter of the General of the Egyptian Army of Occupation, 

has been ordered to arrest the "White Piophet," and, after a terrific struggle between his conscience 
and his duty as a soldier, has refused to carry oat his commands.] 

FIRST BOOK : — The Crescent and the Cross, 

HE GENERAL, the Consul- 
General, and the Egyptian 
pasha in his tarboosh were 
sitting in a half-circle; the 
General's military secretary, 
Captain Graham, was writing 
at the desk, and his aide-de camp, Lieutenant 
Robson, was standing beside it. Nobody was 
speaking as Gordon entered, and the air of 
the room had the dumb emptiness which 
goes before a storm. The General signalled 
to Gordon to sit, requested his A.D.C. to step 
out but wait in his own office, and then said, 
speaking in a jerky, nervous way : — 

"Gordon, I have an order of the utmost 
importance to give you, but before I do so 
your father has something to say." 

With that he took a seat by the side of 
the desk, while the Consul-General, without 
changing the direction of his eyes, said, 
slowly and deliberately : — 

" I need hardly tell you, Gordon, that the 
explanation I am about to make would be 
quite unnecessary in the case of an ordinary 
officer receiving an ordinary command, but 
I have decided to make it to you out of 
regard to the fact of who you are and what 
your relation to the General is to be." 

Gordon bowed without speaking. He was 
struggling to compose himself, and something 
was whispering to him, " Above all things be 
calm ! " 

" I regret to say the Ulema have ignored 
the order which His Excellency sent to them," 
said the Consul-General, indicating the pasha. 


" That's what it comes to, though it's true 
they asked me to receive the man Ishmael 
Ameer and to consider a suggestion." 

"You did, sir?" 

Vot xxxvii.— 1Q. 

Copyright, 1909, by Hall Caine, in 

" I did. The man came, I saw him, and 
heard what he had to say — and now I am 
more than ever convinced that he is a public 

" A peril ? " 

" First, because he advises officers and men 
to abstain from military service on the ground 
that war is incompatible with religion. That 
is opposed to the existing order of society, 
and therefore harmful to good government." 

" I agree," said the General, swinging rest- 
lessly in his revolving chair. 

"Next, because he tells the Egyptian 
people that where the authority of the law is 
opposed to what he is pleased to consider the 
commandments of God they are to obey God 
and not the Government. That is to make 
every man a law to himself and to cause the 
rule of the Government to be defied." 

The pasha smiled and bowed his thin face 
over his hands, which were clasped at his breast. 

"Finally, because he says openly that in 
the time to come Egypt will be a separate 
State with a peculiar mission, and that means 
Nationalism and the end of the rule of 
England in the Valley of the Nile." 

Gordon made an effort to speak, but his 
father waved him aside. 

" I am not here to argue with you about 
the man's teaching, but merely to define it 
He is one of the mischievous people who, 
taking no account of the religious principles 
which lie at the root of civilization, would 
use religion to turn the world back to bar- 
barism. What is true in his doctrines is not 
new, and what is new is not true. As for 
his reforms of polygamy, divorce, seclusion 
of women, and so forth, I have no use for 
the people who, in Cairo or in London, are 
for ever correcting the proof-sheets of the 
Almighty by leading their holy book as they 

the U.ii^** .State* of America. 



please, whether it is the Koran or the Bible. 
And as for his prophecies, there are such 
things as mental strong drinks, and a man 
like this is providing them." 

"You spoke of a suggestion, sir," said 
Gordon, who was still struggling to keep calm. 

" His suggestion," said the Consul-General, 
with icy composure — "his suggestion was an 
aggravation of his offence. He proposed 
that we should leave El Azhar unmolested on 
condition that the Ulema opened it to the 
public. That meant that the Government 
must either countenance his sedition or 
suppress it by the stupid means of discussing 
his principles in courts of law." 

The pasha smiled and the General laughed, 
and then in a last word the Consul-General 
said, quietly : — 

44 General Graves will now tell you what we 
require you to do." 

The General, still jerky and nervous, then 
said : — 

" All the necessary preparations have been 
made, Gordon. The — the Governor of the 
city will call you up at your quarters, and on 
— on receiving his message you will take a 
regiment of cavalry, which is ready here in 
the Citadel, and — and a battalion of infantry, 
which is under arms at Kasr-en-Nil, and 
accompany him to El Azhar. There — as — as 
commander of the troops, you — at the request 
of the Governor — you will take such military 
steps as in your opinion may be required to 
enter the University — and— and clear out 
its students and professors. You will cause 
ten rounds of ammunition to be issued to the 
men, and you will have absolute discretion as 
to the way you go to work and as to the 
amount of force necessary to be used ; but 
you — of course, you will be responsible for 
everything that is done— or not done — in 
carrying out your order. I — I ask you to 
attend to this matter at once, and to report 
to me to-night if possible." 

When the General's flurried words were 
spoken there was silence for a moment, and 
then Gordon, trying in vain to control his 
voice, said, haltingly: — - 

41 You know I don't want to do this work, 
General, and if it must be done I beg of you 
to order someone else to do it." 

44 That is impossible," replied the General. 
44 You are the proper person for this duty, 
and to give it to another officer would be 
to — to strengthen the party of rebellion by 
saying in so many words that there is dis- 
affection in our own ranks." 

44 Then permit me to resign my appoint- 
ment on your staff, sir. I don't want to do 

so — God knows I don't. My rank as a 
soldier is the one thing in the world I'm 
proudest of, but I would rather resign it " 

44 Resign it if you please — if you are so 
foolish. Send in your papers ; but until they 
are accepted you are my officer, and I must 
ask you to obey my order." 

Gordon struggled hard with himself, and 
then said, boldly : — 

44 General, you must pardon me if I tell 
you that you don't know what you are asking 
me to do." 

The three old men looked sharply round at 
him, but he was now keyed up and did not care. 

44 No, sir — none of you ! You think you 
are merely asking me to drive out of El Azhar 
a number of rebellious students and their 
teachers. But you are really asking me to 
kill hundreds, perhaps thousands, of them." 

44 Fudge ! Fiddlesticks!" cried the General, 
and then, forgetting the presence of the pasha, 
he said, 44 These people are Egyptians — miser- 
able, pigeon-livered Egyptians ! Before you 
fire a shot they'll fly away to a man. But 
even if they stay the responsibility will be 
their own— so what the dev " 

44 That's just where we join issue, General," 
said Gordon. " There isn't a worm that 
hasn't a right to resent a wrong, and this 
will be a wrong, and the people will be 
justified in resenting it." 

The General, who was breathing hard, 
turned to the Consul-General and said, 44 I'm 
sorry, my lord, very sorry, but you see " 

There was a short silence, and then the 
Consul-General, still calm on the outside as 
a frozen lake, said, 44 Gordon, I presume you 
know what you will be doing if you refuse to 
obey your General's order ? " 

Gordon did not answer, and his father, in a 
biting note, continued : — 

44 1 dare say you suppose you are following 
the dictates of conscience, and I don't 
question your sincerity. Fm beginning to 
see that this Empire of ours is destined to be 
destroyed in the end by its humanitarians, its 
philanthropists, its foolish people who are 
bewitched by good intentions." 

The sarcasm was cutting Gordon to the 
bone, but he did not reply, and presently the 
old man's voice softened. 

" I presume you know that if you refuse to 
obey your General's order you will be dealing 
a blow at your father — dishonouring him, 
accusing him. Your refusal will go far. 
There will be no hushing it up. England 
as well as Egypt will hear of it." 

A deep flush overspread the Proconsul's 




" For forty years I've been doing the work 
of civilization in this country. I think pro- 
gress has received a certain impetus. And 
now, *vhen I am old and my strength is not 
what it was once, my son — my only son— is 
pulling the lever that is to bring my house 
down over my head." 

The old man's voice trembled and almost 

" You've not thought of that, I suppose ?" 

Gordon's emotions almost mastered him. 
"Yes, sir," he said, "I have thought of it, 
and it's a great grief to me to oppose you. 
But it would be a still greater grief to help 
you — to help you to undo all the great work 
you have ever done in Egypt. Father, 
believe me, I know what I'm saying. There 
will be bloodshed, and as sure as that 
happens there will be an outcry all over 
the Mohammedan world. The prestige of 
England will suffer-— in India — in Europe — 
America— everywhere. And you, father, you 
alone will be blamed." 

At that the General rose in great wrath, 
but the Consul-General interposed. 

" One moment, please ! I am anxious to 
make allowances for fanaticism, and at a 
moment of tension I could wish to avoid 
any act that might create a conflagration. 
Therefore," he said, turning to Gordon, " if 
you are so sure that there will be bloodshed, 
I am willing to hold my hand, on one 
condition — that the man Ishmael, the mouth- 
piece of the sedition we wish to suppress, 
should leave Egypt without delay." 

Gordon did not reply immediately, and his 
father continued : " Why not ? It is surely 
better that one man should go than that the 
whole nation should suffer. Send him out, 
drive him out, walk him over the frontier, 
and for the present I am satisfied." 

" Father," said Gordon, " what you ask 
me to do is impossible. The Egyptians 
believe Ishmael to be one of the prophets 
who are sent into the world to keep the souls 
of men alive. He is like the Mahdi to them, 
and — who knows ? — they may come to think 
of him as the Redeemer, the Christ, who is 
to pacify the world. Right or wrong, they 
think of him already as a living protest 
against that part of Western civilization which 
is the result of force and fraud. Therefore, 
to drive him out of the country would be 
the same thing to them as to drive out 
religion. In their view it would be a sin 
against humanity — a sin against God." 

But the General could bear no more. Rising 
from the desk, he said, contemptuously : — 

" All that's very fine, very exalted, I dare 

say, but we are plain soldiers, you and I, 
and we cannot follow the flights of great 
minds like these Mohammedan sheikhs. So 
without further argument I ask you if you are 
willing to carry out the order I have given you." 

" It would be a crime, sir." 

"Crime or no crime, it would be no concern 
of yours. Do you refuse to obey my order ? " 

" Recall your order, sir, and I shall have 
no reason to refuse to obey it." 

" Do you refuse to obey my order ? " 

" It would be against my conscience, 

" Your conscience is not in question. 
Your only duty is to carry out the will of 
your superior." 

" When I accepted my commission in the 
Army did I lose my rights as a human being, 

" Don't talk to me about losing your rights. 
In the face of duty an officer loses father, 
mother, wife, and child. According to the 
King's regulations, you are a soldier first, 

" No, sir ; according to the King's regula- 
tions I am first of all a man." 

The General bridled his gathering anger 
and answered : " Of course, you can ask for 
a written order — if you wish to avoid the 
danger of blame." 

" I wish to avoid the danger of doing 
wrong, sir," said Gordon, and then, glancing 
towards his father, he added, " Let me feel 
that I'm fighting for the right. An English 
soldier cannot fight without that." 

" Then I ask you as an English soldier if 
you refuse to obey my order ? " repeated the 
General. But Gordon, still with his face 
towards his father, said : — 

" Wherever the English flag flies men say, 
' Here is justice.' That's something to be 
proud of. Don't let us lose it, sir." 

" I ask you again," said the General, " if 
you refuse to obey my order ? " 

" I have done wrong things without know- 
ing them," said Gordon, " but when you ask 
me to — ~" 

" England asks you to obey your General 
— will you do it ? " said General Graves ; and 
then Gordon faced back to him, and in a 
voice that rang through the room he said : — 

" No ; not for England will I do what I 
know to be wrong." 

At that the Consul-General waved his 
hand and said, " Let us have done " ; where- 
upon General Graves, who was now violently 
agitated, touched a hand bell on the desk, 
and when his servant appeared he said : — 
ighter to'come to me." 






Not a word more was spoken until light 
footsteps were heard approaching, and Helena 
came into the room with a ttandkerchief in 
her hand, pale as if she had been crying, and 
breathless as if she had been running hard. 
The three old gentlemen rose and bowed to 
her as she entered, but Gordon, whose face 
had frowned when he heard the General's 
command, both rose and sat without turning 
in her direction. 

" Sit down, Helena," said the General ; 
and Helena sat. 

"Helena, you will remember that I asked 
you if you could marry an officer who, for 
disobedience to his General— and that 
General your father — had been court- 
martialled and perhaps degraded?" 

In a scarcely audible voice Helena 
answered, "Yes." 

" Then tell Colonel Lord what course you 
will take if, by his own deliberate act, that 
misfortune should befall him." 

A hot blush mounted to Helena's cheeks, 
and, looking at the hem of her handkerchief, 
she said : — 

" Gordon knows already what I would say, 
father. There is no need to tell him." 

Then the General turned back to Gordon. 
" You hear ?" he said. " I presume you 
understand Helena's answer. For the sake 
of our mutual peace and happiness I wished 
to give you one more chance. The issue is 
now plain. Either you obey your General's 
order or you renounce all hope of his 
daughter— which is it to be?" 

The young man swallowed his anger, and 
answered, "Is it fair, sir — fair to Helena, I 
mean — to put her to a test like that — either 
violent separation from her father or from 
me? But as you have spoken to Helena, 
I ask you to allow me to do so also." 

" No ; I forbid it," said the General. 

" Don't be afraid, sir. I'm not going to 
appeal over your head to any love for me in 
Helena's heart. That must speak for itself 
now — if it's to speak at all. But " — his voice 
was so soft and low that it could hardly be 
heard — " I wish to ask her a question. 
Helena " 

" I forbid it," said the General, hotly. 

There was a moment of tense silence, and 
then Gordon, who had suddenly become 
hoarse, said, "You spoke about a written 
order, General. Give it to me." 

" With pleasure ! " said the General, and 
turning to his military secretary at the desk 
he requested him to make out an order in 
the Order Book according to the terms of his 
verbal command, 

Nothing was heard in the silence of the next 
moment but the spasmodic scratching of 
Captain Graham's quill pen. The Consul- 
General sat motionless, and the pasha cnerely 
smoothed one white hand over the other. 
Gordon tried to glance into Helena's face, 
but she looked fixedly before her out of her 
large, wide-open, swollen eyes. 

Only one idea shaped itself clearly through 
the storm that raged in Gordon's brain : to 
secure his happiness with Helena he must 
make himself unhappy in every other relation 
of life — to save himself from degradation as 
a soldier he must degrade himself as a man. 

Presently, through the whirling mist of his 
half-consciousness, he was aware that the 
military secretary had ceased writing and that 
the General was offering him a paper. 

" Here it is," the General was saying, with 
a certain bitterness. "Now you may set 
your mind at ease. If there are any bad 
consequences you can preserve your reputa- 
tion as an officer. And if there are any 
complaints from the War Office, or anywhere 
else, you can lay the blame on me. You 
can go on with your duty without fear for 
your honour, and when " 

But Gordon, whose gorge had risen at 
every word, suddenly lost control of himself, 
and, getting up with the paper in his hand, 
he said : — 

" No, I will not go on. Do you suppose 
I have been thinking of myself? Take back 
your order. There is no obedience due to a 
sinful command, and this command is sinful. 
It is wicked, it is mad, it is abominable. You 
are asking me to commit murder— that's it — 
murder — and I will not commit it. There's 
your order— take it back, and damn it ! " 

So saying, he crushed the paper in his 
hands and flung it on the desk. 

At the next instant everybody in the room 
had risen. There was consternation on every 
face, and the General, who was choking with 
anger, was saying, in a half-stifled voice : — 

"You are no fool — you know what you 
have done now. You have not only refused 
to obey orders — you have insulted your 
General and been guilty of deliberate insub- 
ordination. Therefore you are unworthy of 
bearing arms. Give me your sword." 

Gordon hesitated for a moment, and the 
General said : — 

" Give it me — give it me ! " 

Then with a rapid gesture Gordon un- 
buckled his sword from the- belt and handed 
it to the General. 

The General held it in both his hands, which 
were vibrating like the parts of an engine 




There ! . . . He has gone, I suppose ? Has 

he gone? Yes? Good thing, too. Hope 

I'll never see him again. I never will — 

never. . . . How my head aches ! No 

wonder, either." 

u You're ill, father; let me fetch the doctor." 

" Certainly not I'm all right. Sit down, 
girl — sit down and don't worry. . . . You 
mustn't mind me. I'm a bit put out — natu- 
rally. It's hard for you, I know, but don't 
cry, Helena." 

" I'm not crying, father — you see I'm not." 

" That's right ! That's right, dear ! It's 
hard for you, I say, but then it isn't easy for 
me, either. I liked him ; I did — I confess 
it. I really liked him, and to ... to do 
that was like cutting off one's own son. 
But . . . give me another drink of water, 
Helena ... or, perhaps, if you think you 
ought to run ... no, give me the medicine 
and 111 be better presently." 

She poured out a dose and he drank it off. 

41 Now I'll lie down and close my eyes. 
I soon get better when I lie down and close 
my eyes, you know. And don't fret, dear. 
Think what an escape you've had ! Merciful 
heavens ! A traitor ! Think if you had 
married a traitor ! A man who had sold 
himself to the enemies of England ! I was 
proud of you when you showed him that, 
come what would, you must stand by your 
country. Splendid ! Just what I expected 
of you, Helena. Splendid ! " 

After a while his excited speech and gusty 
breathing softened down to silence and to 
something like sleep, and then Helena sat on 
a stool beside the sofa and covered her face 
with her hands. A hot flush mounted to her 
pale cheeks when she remembered that it 
had not been for England that she had acted 
as she had, but first for her father and next 
for herself. 

Perhaps she ought to have told Gordon 
why she could not leave her father. If she 
had done so he might have acted otherwise. 
But the real author of the whole trouble had 
been the Egyptian. How she hated that 
man ! With all the bitterness of her tortured 
heart she hated him. 

As for Gordon, traitor or no traitor, he 
had been above them all ! Far, far above 
everybody ! Even the Consul-General, now 
she came to think of it, had been a little 
man compared with his son. 

With her face buried in both hands and 
the tears at last trickling through her fingers, 
she saw everything over again, and one thing 
above all —Gordon standing in silence while 
her father insulted and degraded him, 

VqL aowvii.— 17- 

The General opened his eyes, and seeing 
Helena at his feet he tried to comfort her, 
but every word he spoke went like iron into 
her soul. 

" I'm sorry for you, Helena — very sorry ! 
We must bear this trouble together, dear. 
Only ourselves again now, you know, just as 
it was five years ago at home. Your dark 
hour this time, darling; but I'll make it up 
to you. Come, kiss me, Helena," and, 
drying her weary eyes, she kissed him. 

The afternoon sun was then reddening the 
alabaster walls of the mosque outside, and 
they heard a surging sound as of a crowd 
approaching. A moment later the little 
black Mosie ran in to say that the new 
Mahdi was coming, and. almost before the 
General and Helena could rise to their feet 
a tall man in white Oriental costume entered 
the room. He came in slowly, solemnly, 
and with head bent, saying : — 

"Excuse me, sir, if I come without 
ceremony " 

" Ishmael Ameer ? " asked the General. 

" My name is Ishmael — you are the Com- 
mander of the British forces. May I speak 
with you alone ? " 

The General stood still for a moment, 
measuring his man from head to foot, and 
then said : — 

"Leave us, Helena." 

Helena hesitated, and the General said, 
" I'm better now — leave us." 

With that she went out reluctantly, turning 
at the door to look at her enemy, who stood 
in his great height in the middle of the 
floor and never so much as glanced in her 

Both men stood during the interview that 
followed — the one in his white robes by the 
end of the sofa, resting two tapering fingers 
upon it ; the other in his General's uniform by 
the side of the desk, except when, in the heat 
of his anger, he strode with heavy step and the 
jingling of spurs across the space between. 

" Now, sir, now," said the General. " I 
have urgent work to do, and not much time 
to give you. What is it ? " 

"I come," said Ishmael, who was out- 
wardly very calm, though his large black eyes 
were full of fire and light — " I come to speak 
to you about the order to close El Azhar." 

" Then you come to the wrong place," said 
the General, sharply. "You should go to 
the Agency — the British Agency." 

" I have seen the English lord already. He 



am here to ask you— forgive me — I am here 
to ask you not to obey it." 

The General tried to laugh. '*• Wonder- 
ful ! " he said. " Your Eastern ideas of 
discipline are wonderful ! Please understand, 
sir, / am here as the instrument of authority 
— that, and that only." 

" An instrument has its responsibility," 
said Ishmael. " If there were no instruments 
to do evil deeds, would evil deeds be done ? 
It is not your fault, sir, that the order has 
been issued, but it will be your fault if it is 
carried into effect." 

" Really ! " said the General, again trying 
to laugh. " Permit me to tell you, sir, that 
in this case there will be no fault in question, 
either of mine or anybody else's. El Azhar 
is a hotbed of sedition, and it is high time 
the Government cleared it out." 

" El Azhar," said Ishmael, " is the heart of 
the Moslem faith. Take their religion away 
from them and the Moslems have nothing 
left. You are a Christian, and when your 
great Master was on earth He fed the souls 
of the people first." 

" Y r es, and he whipped the rascals out of 
the temple, and that's what the Government 
is going to do now — to drive out the pre- 
tentious impostors who are putting a lying 
spirit into the mouth of the people and 
making it impossible to govern them." 

The Egyptian showed no anger. " I am 
here only to plead for the people, sir. Do 
not harden your heart against them. Do 
not send armed men among an unarmed 
populace. It will be slaughter." 

" Tell them to submit to the Government 
and there will be no harm done to anyone. 
It's their duty, isn't it ? Whatever the 
Government may be, isn't it their duty to 
submit to it ? " 

" Yes," said Ishmael. " We who are 
Moslems are taught by the Prophet— blessed 
be his name — that even if a negro slave is 
appointed to rule over us we ought to obey 

" Deuce take it, sir, what do you mean by 
that ? " said the General. 

" But government is a trust from God," 
said the Egyptian, " and at the day of Resur- 
rection the Most High will ask you what you 
have done to His children." 

" Damn it, sir, have you come here to 
preach me a sermon ? " 

" I have come to plead with you for jus- 
tice — the justice you look for from your 
Saviour. * Be merciful to the weak,' He said, 
and it is for the weak I appeal to you. He 
was meek and lowly — will you forget His 

precepts ? ' Love one another ' — will you 
make strife between man and man ? He is 
dead — shall it be said that His spirit has 
died out among those who call Him their 
Redeemer ? " 

The General brought his fist heavily down 
on the desk as if to command silence. 

"Listen here, sir," he said. " If you imagine 
for one moment that this tall talk will have 
any effect upon me, let me advise you to drop 
it. Being a plain soldier who has received ^ 
plain command, I shall take whatever military 
steps are necessary to see it faithfully carried 
out, and if the precious leaders of the people, 
playing on their credulity and fanaticism, 
should instigate rebellion, I shall have the 
honour — understand me plainly — I shall 
have the honour to lodge them in a safe 
quarter, whosoever they are and whatsoever 
their pretensions may be." 

The Egyptian's eyes showed at that moment 
that he was a man capable of wild frenzy, but 
he controlled himself and answered : — 

" I am not here to defend myself, sir. You 
can take me now if you choose to do so. But 
if I cannot plead with you for the people, let 
me plead with you for yourself — your family." 

The General, who had turned away from 
Ishmael, swung round on him. 

"My family?" 

" ' He that troubleth his own house,' saith 
the Koran, * shall inherit the wind.' Will 
you, my brother, allow your daughter to be 
separated from the brave man who loves her ? 
A woman is tender and sweet ; all she wants 
is love ; and love is a sacred thing, sir. Your 
daughter is your flesh and blood — will you 
make her unhappy? I see a day when you 
are dead — will it comfort you in the grave 
that two who should be together are apart ?" 

<l They're apart already, so that's over and 
done with," said the General. " But listen 
to me again, sir. My girl needs none of your 
pity. She has done her duty as a soldier's 
daughter, and cut off the traitor whom you, 
and men like you, appear to have corrupted. 
Look here — and here," he cried, pointing to 
the broken sword and the medals, which were 
still lying where he had flung them on the 
floor. " The man has gone — gone in disgrace 
and shame. That's what you've done for 
him, if it's any satisfaction to you to know it. 
As for my daughter," he said, raising his 
voice in his gathering wrath and striding up 
to Ishmael with heavy steps and the jingling 
of his spurs — "as for my daughter, Helena — 
I will ask you to be so good as ttrkeep her 
name out of it. Do you hear? Keep her 
name outGfittjiralrftaffiffl — " 





At that moment the men heard the door 
open and a woman's light footsteps behind 
them. It was Helena coming into the room. 

iC Did you call me, father?" she asked. 

u No. Go back immediately " 

She looked doubtfully at the two men, who 
were now face to face as if in the act of 
personal quarrel, hesitated, seemed about to 
speak, and then went out slowly* 

There was silence for a moment after she 
Has gone, and then Ishmael said : — 

tl Do I understand you to say, sir, that 
Colonel Lord has gone in disgrace?" 

14 Yes; for consorting with the enemies of 
his country and refusing to obey the order of 
his General.' 1 

£t Lost his place and rank as a soldier?" 

" Soon will, and then be will be alone and 
have you to thank for it 1 ' 

The Egyptian drew himself up to his full 
height and answered, "You are wrong, sir. 
He who ftBqwabfi&ifos tiod, and if that 

J 3 2 


brave man has suffered rather than do an evil 
act, will God forget him ? No 1" 

"God will do as He thinks best without 
considering either you or me, sir," said the 
General " But I have something to do and 
I will ask you to leave me. ... Or wait 
one moment ! Lest you should carry away 
the impression that because Colonel Lcrd 
has refused to obey his General's order the 
order will not be obeyed, wait and see." 

He touched the bell and called for his 

" Tell Colonel Macfarlane to come to me 
immediately," said the General, and when his 
aide-de-camp had gone he turned to his desk 
for papers. 

The Egyptian, who had never moved from 
his place by the sofa, now took one step 
forward and said in a low, quivering voice, 
" General, I have appealed to you on behalf 
of my people and on your own behalf, but 
there is one thing more." 

"What is it?" 

"Your country." 

The General made an impatient gesture, 
and the Egyptian said, *' Hear me, I beg, I 
pray. Real as life, real as death, real as wells 
of water in a desert place, is their religion to 
the Mussulmans, and if you lay so much as 
your finger upon it your Government will die." 

He raised his hand and with one trem- 
bling finger pointed upwards. " Uo you 
think your swords will govern them ? What 
can your swords do to their souls ? By the 
Most High God, I swear to you that I have 
only to speak the word and the rule of 
England in Egypt will end." 

At that moment Colonel Macfarlane, a 
large man in khaki, a Highlander, with a 
ruddy face and a glass in his left eye, opened 
the door and stood by il, while the General, 
whose own face was scarlet with anger, 
said :— 

"So ! So that's how you talked to Colonel 
Lord, I presume — how you darkened the 
poor devil's understanding ! Now see — see 
what effect your threats have upon me. Step 
forward, Colonel Macfarlane." 

The Colonel saluted and stepped up to 
the General, who repeated to him word for 
word the order he had given to Gordon, and 
then said : — 

" You will arrest all who resist you, and 
if any resist with violence you will compel 
obedience — you understand?" 

" Perfectly," said the Colonel, and saluting 
again he left the room. 

" Now, sir, you can go," said the General 
to Ishmael, whereupon the Egyptian, whose 

face had taken on an extreme pallor, re- 
plied : — 

" Very well. I have warned you and you 
will not hear me. But I tell you .that at this 
moment Israfil has the trumpet to his mouth, 
and is only waiting for God's order to blow 
it ! I tell you, too, that I see you — you— on 
the Day of Judgment, and there are black 
marks on your face." 

" Silence, sir ! " said the General, bringing 
his clenched fist heavily down on the desk. 
Then he struck the bell and in a choking 
voice called first for his servant and then for 
his aide-de-camp. " Robson ! See this man 
out of the Citadel ! This damnable, pre- 
sumptuous braggart ! Robson ! Where are 
you?" But the servant did not appear and 
the aide-de-camp did not answer. 

" No matter," said the Egyptian. " I will 
go of myself. I will try to forget the hard 
words you have said of me. I will not retort 
them upon you. You are a Christian, and it 
was a Christian who said, * Resist not evil.' 
That is a commandment as binding upon us 
as upon you. God's will be done ! " 

With that Ishmael went out as he had 
entered, slowly, solemnly, with head bent 
and eyes on the ground. 

The General was now utterly exhausted. 
Being left alone he leaned against the desk, 
intending to wait until his breathing had 
become more regular and he could reach the 
sofa. Standing there he heard the surging 
noise of the crowd that had been waiting 
outside for their Arab prophet, and were now 
going away with him. He wanted to call 
Helena, but restrained himself, remembering 
how often she had warned him. 

" Robson ! " he called again, but again the 
aide-de-camp did not answer — he must have 
gone offon some errand for Colonel Macfarlane, 

The General took up his medicine and 
gulped down a large dose, drinking from the 
neck of the bottle, then sank on to the sofa. 

Some minutes passed and he began to feel 
better. The sunset was deflected into his 
face from the alabaster walls of the mosque 
outside, but he could not get up to pull down 
the blind of his window. So he closed his 
eyes and thought of what had happened. 

It seemed to him that Gordon had been 
to blame for everything. But for Gordon's 
monstrous conduct they would have been 
spared this trouble — Lord Nuneham's crush- 
ing blow, his own humiliating action, so 
wickedly forced upon him, and, above all, 
Helena's sorrow, 




In the delirium of his anger against Gordon 
he felt as if he would choke. Thinking of 
Helena and her ruined happiness, he won- 
dered why he had let Gordon off so lightly, 
and he wanted to follow and punish him. 

Then he heard the door open, and, think- 
ing Helena was coming into the room, he 
rose to his feet and faced around, when before 
him, in the doorway, with a haggard face, 
stood Gordon himself. 

When Gordon Lord, after parting with 
Helena, had left the Citadel, his mental 
anguish had been so intense as to deaden all 
his faculties. His reason was clogged, his 
ideas were obscure, he could not see or hear 
properly. Passing the sentry in his box by 
the gate, he did not notice the man's 
bewildered stare or acknowledge his abbre- 
viated salute. The whole event of the last 
hour had overwhelmed him as with a terrible 
darkness, and in this darkness he plodded 
on until he came into the streets, dense with 
people and clamorous with all the noises of 
an Eastern city — the bell of the water-carrier, 
the cries of the sherbet-sellers, the braying of 
donkeys, and the vicious grunting of the 

11 Where am I going TP' he asked himself 
at one moment, and w£en he remembered 
that he was going back to his quarters, for that 
was what he had been ordered to do, that he 
might be under arrest^ and in due course 
tried by court-martial, he told himself that 
he had been tried and condemned and 
punished already. At that thought, though 
clouded and obscure, he bit his lip until it 
bled, and muttered, " No, I cannot go back 
to quarters — I will not ! " 

At the next moment a certain helplessness 
came over him, and up from the deep place 
where the strongest man is as a child, by the 
pathetic instinct that I keeps the boy alive in 
him to the last dark day of his life and in 
the hour of death, came a desire to go home 
— to his mother. But when he thought of 
his mothers pleading voice as she begged 
him to keep peace with his father, and then, 
by some juggling twist of torturing memory, 
of the first evening after his return to Egypt, 
when he wore his medals and she fingered 
them on his breast with a pride that no 
Queen ever had in the jewels in her crown, 
he said to himself, " No, I can never go 
home again." 

His mind was oscillating among these 
agonizing thoughts when he became aware 
that he was walking in tfie Esbekiah district, 

the European quarter of Cairo, where the 
ooze of the gutter of the city is flung up 
under the public eye ; and there under the 
open piazza, containing a line of drinking- 
places, in an atmosphere that was thick with 
tobacco smoke, the reek of alcohol, the babel 
of many tongues, the striking of matches, and 
the popping of corks, he sat down at a table 
and called for a glass of brandy. 

The brandy seemed to clear his faculties 
for a moment, and his aimless and wandering 
thoughts began to concentrate themselves. 
Then the scene in the General's office came 
back to him — the drawing of his sword from 
its scabbard, the breaking of it across the 
knee, the throwing of the wretched fragments 
at his feet, the ripping away of his medals, 
and the trampling of them underfoot. The 
hideous memory of it all made his blood 
boil, and when his beaten brain swung back 
to the scenes in which he won his honours at 
the risk of his life — Omdurman, Ladysmith, 
Pretoria — the rank injustice he had suffered 
almost stifled him with rage, and he swore 
and struck the table. 

All his anger was against the General, not 
against his father, of whom he had hardly 
thought at all ; but the cruellest agony he 
passed through came at the moment when 
his wrath rose against Helena. As he 
thought of her he became dizzy ; his brain 
reeled with a dance of ideas in which no 
picture lasted longer than an instant, and no 
emotion would stay. At one moment he was 
seeing her as he saw her first, with her big 
eyes, black as a sloe, the joyous smile that 
was one of her greatest charms, the arched 
brow, the silken lashes, the gleam of celestial 
fire, the " Don't go yet " that came in her 
look, and then the quickening pulse, the 
thrill that passed through him, and the 
mysterious voice that whispered, " It is She ! " 

Without knowing it he groaned aloud as he 
thought of the ruin which all this had come 
to ; and at the next moment he was in the 
midst of another memory— a memory of the 
future as he had imagined it would be. They 
were to be married soon, and then, realizing 
one of the dreams of hi? life, they were to 
visit America, for his mother's blood called 
to him to go there, to see the great new 
world — yes, but above all to stand, with 
Helena's quivering hand in his, on that rock 
at Plymouth where a handful of fearless men 
and women had landed on a bleak and 
hungry coast, afraid of no fate, for God was 
with them, and in two short centuries had 
peopled a vast continent and created one of 
the mightiest eiTCpire^qfuthg.eajth. Remem- 



bering this as a vanished dream, his wretched 
soul was on the edge of a vortex of madness, 
and he laughed outright with a laugh that 
shivered the air around him. 

Then he was conscious that somebody was 
speaking to him. It was a young girl in a 
gaudy silk dress, with a pasty face, lips painted 
very red, eyebrows darkened, a flower in her 
full bosom, which was covered with trans- 
parent lace, and a little satchel swinging on 
her wrist. 

u Overdoing it 
a bit, haven't you, 
dear?" she said 
in French, and she 
smiled at him, a 
poor sidelong 
smite, out of her 
crushed and 
crumpled soul. 

At the same 
moment he be- 
came aware that 
three men at a 
table behind him 
were winking at 
the girl and joking 
at his expense. 
One of them, a 
little, fat American 
Jew with puffy 
cheeks, chewing 
the end of a cigar, 
was saying : — 

"Guess a man 
don't have no use 
for a hat in a cli- 
mate like this — 
sun so soft, and 
only ninety - nine 
in the shade," 

Whereupon an 
Englishman, with 
a ripped and 
ragged mouth and 
a miscellaneous 
nose, half pug and 
half Roman, 
answered ; — 

"Been hanging 
himself up on a 
nail by the breast 
of his coat, too, 
you bet." 

Then, putting 
his hand to his 
hair and looking 
down at the toni 
cloth of his tunic j 

Gordon realized for the first time that he was 
bareheaded, having left his helmet at the 
Citadel, and that to the unclean consciousness 
of the people about him he was drunk. 

At that moment he started up suddenly, 
and coming into collision with the American, 
who was swinging on the back legs of his 
chair, he sent him sprawling on the ground, 
where he yelled : — 

tb Here, I say, you blazing " 

A UKAMiMAN IN A H-2 WHISPENhl* I * N L'Ml ! ( KlW* 

by Google 






But the third man at the table, a dragoman 
in a fez, whispered : — 

" Hush ! I know that gentlemans. Leave 
him alone, sirs, please, l^et him go." 

With heart and soul aflame, Gordon 
walked away, intending to take the first cab 
that came along and then forgetting to do so. 
One wild thought now took possession of 
him and expelled all other thoughts. He 
must go back to the Citadel and accuse the 
General of his gross injustice. He must say 
what he meant to say when he stood by the 
door as he was going out The General 

should hear it — he should, and, by , he 

must ! 

The brandy was working in his brain by 
this time, and in the blind leading of passion 
everything that happened on the way seemed 
to fortify his resolve. The streets of the 
native city were now surging with people, as 
a submerged mine surges with the water that 
runs through it. He knew where they were 
going to — they were going to El Azhar— and 
when he came near to the great mosque he 
had to fight his way through a crowd that was 
coming from the opposite direction, with the 
turbaned head of a very tall man in the midst 
of the multitude, who were chanting verses 
from the Koran and crying in chorus, 

At sight of this procession, knowing what 
it meant, that the Moslems were going to the 
doomed place to defend it or to die, a 
thousand confused forms danced before 
Gordon's eyes. His impatience to reach the 
Citadel became feverish and he began to run, 
but again at the foot of the hill on which the 
fortress stands he was kept back. This time 
it was by a troop of cavalry, who were trotting 
hard towards El Azhar. He saw his deputy, 
Macfarlane, with his blotchy face and his 
monocle, but he was himself seen by no one, 
and in the crush he was almost ridden down. 

The Citadel, when he reached it, seemed to 
be deserted, even the sentry standing with his 
back to him in the sentry-box as he hurried 
through. There was nobody in the square 
of the mosque or yet at the gate to the 
General's garden, which was open, and the 
door of the house, when he came to it, was 
open, too. With the hot blood in his head, 
his teeth compressed and his nostrils quiver- 
ing, he burst into the General's office and 
came face to face with the old soldier as he 
was rising from the sofa. Thus in the blind 
swirl of circumstance the two men met at the 
moment when the heart of each was full of 
hatred for the other. 

They were brave men both of them, and 

never for one instant had either of them 
known what it was to feel afraid. They were 
not afraid now, but they had loved each other 
once, and up from what deep place in their 
souls God alone can say there came a wave 
of feeling that fought with their hate. The 
General no longer wanted to punish Gordon, 
but only that Gordon should go away, while 
Gordon's rage, which was to have thundered 
at the General, broke into an agonizing cry. 

" What are you doing here ? Didn't I order 
you to your quarters? Do you wish me to 
put you under close arrest ? Get off ! " 

"Not yet. You and I have to settle 
accounts first. You have behaved like a 
tyrant. A tyrant — that's the only word for 
it ! If I was guilty of insubordination, you 
were guilty of outrage. You had a right to 
arrest me and to order that I should be 
court-martialled. But what right had you to 
condemn me before I was tried and punish 
me before I was sentenced ? Before or after, 
what right had you to break my sword and 
tear off my medals ? Degradation is obsolete 
in the British Army. What right had you to 
degrade me? Before my father, too, and 
before Helena ! What right had you ? " 

" Leave my house instantly ! Leave it ! 
Leave it ! " said the General, his voice 
coming thick and hoarse. 

" Not till you hear what I've come to tell 
you," said Gordon, and then — who knows on 
what inherited cell of his brain imprinted? — 
he repeated the threat his father had made 
forty years before : — 

" I've come to tell you that I'll go back to 
my quarters and you shall court-martial me 
to-morrow if you dare. Before that England 
may know, by what is done to-night, that I 
refused to obey your order because I'm a 
soldier — not a murderer. But if she never 
knows," he cried, in his breaking voice, "and 
you try me and condemn me and degrade 
me to the ranks itself, I'll get up again— do 
you hear me ? — I'll get up again and win 
back all I've lost and more — until I'm 
your own master and you'll have to obey 

The General's face became scarlet, and, 
lifting his hand as if to strike Gordon, he 
cried, in a choking voice : — 

" Go, before I do something . . ." 

But Gordon, in the delirium of his rage, 
heard nothing except the sound of his own 
quivering voice. 

" More than that," he said, " I'll win back 
Helena. She was mine, and you have sepa- 
rated her from me, and broken her heart as 
well as my own. Was that the act of a 






father, or of a robber and a tyrant ? But she 
will come back to me, and when you are 
dead and in your grave we shall be together, 
because , . * Stop that ! Stop it, I say ! " 

The General, unable to command himself 
any longer, had snatched up the broken 
sword from the floor, and was making for 
Gordon as if to smite him, 

"Stand away! You are an old man and 
I am not a coward, Drop that, or, by God, 
you w 

But the General, losing himself utterly, 
flung himself on Gordon with the broken 
sword, his voice gone in a husky growl and 
his breath coming in hoarse gusts, 

The struggle was short but terrible, 
Gordon, in the strength of his young man- 
hood, first laid hold of the General by the 
upper part of the breast to keep him off, and 
then, feeling that his hand was wounded, he 
gripped at the old man's throat with fingers 
that clung like claws. At the next moment 
he snatched the sword from the General, and 
at the same instant, with a delirious laugh, he 
flung the man himself away* 

The General fell heavily with a deep groan 
and a gurgling cry. Gordon, with a con- 
temptuous gesture, thre^ the broken sword 
on to the floor, and then, with the growl of a 
wild creature, he turned to go. 

" Fight me — would you, eh ? Kill me, 
perhaps ! We've settled accounts at last — 
haven't we ? " 

But hearing no answer he turned at the 
door to look back and saw the General lying 
where he had fallen, outstretched and still. 
At that sight the breath seemed to go out of 
his body at one gasp. His head turned 
giddy and the red gleams of the sunset, 
which were deflected into the room, appeared 

to his half blind eyes to cover everything 

with blood. 

Gordon stood with his mouth open, the 
brute sense struck out of him by the dead 
silence. Then he said, " Get up ! Why don't 
you get up ? " hardly knowing what he was 

He got no answer, and a horrible idea 
began to take shape in his mind, Though so 
hot a moment ago, he shivered and his teeth 
began to chatter. He looked around him 
for a moment in the dazed way of a man 
awakening from a nightmare, and then 
stepped up on tiptoe to where the General lay. 

Raising his head, he looked at him and 
found it hard to believe that what he vaguely 
feared had happened, There was no sign of 
injury anywhere- The eyes were open and 
they looked fixedly at him with so fierce a stare 
that they seemed to jump out of their sockets. 

"Stunned — that's all — stunned by the 
fall," he thought, and, seeing a bottle of 
brandy on the shelf of the desk, he got up 
and poured a little into the medicine glass, 
and then, kneeling and lifting the General's 
head again, he forced the liquor through the 
tightly-compressed lips* 

It ran out as it went in, and then, with 
gathering fear and fumbling fingers^ Gordon 
unbuttoned the General's frock-coat and laid 
a trembling hand over his heart. At one 
moment he thought he felt a beat, but at the 
next he knew it was only the throb of his 
own pulses. 

At that the world seemed for a moment to 
be blotted out, and when he came to himself 
again he was holding the General in his arms 
and calling to him, 

" General ! General I Speak to me I 

For God's sake, 
speak to me ! " 


*> *jfiKfe 



iJS - 










In the torrent of his remorse he was kissing 
the General's forehead and crying over his 
face, but there was no response. 

Then a great trembling shook his whole 
body, and dropping the head gently back to 
the floor he rose to his feet The General 
was dead, and he knew it. 

He had seen death a hundred times before, 
but only on the battlefield, amid the boom 
of cannon, the wail of shell, the snap of 
rifles, and the oaths of men, but now it filled 
him with terror. 

The silence was awful. A minute ago 
the General had been a living man, face to 
face with him, and the room had been 
ringing with the clash of their voices ; but 
now this breathless hush, this paralyzing still- 
ness, in which the very air seemed to be 
dead, for something was gone as by the stroke 
of an almighty hand, and there was nothing 
left but the motionless figure at his feet. 

" What have I done ? " he asked, and when 
he told himself that in his headstrong wrath 
he had killed a man his head spun round and 
round. He who had refused to obey orders 
because he would not commit murder was 
guilty of murder himself 1 What devil out of 
hell had ordered things so that, as the very 
consequence of refusing to commit a crime, 
he had become a criminal ? 

11 God have pity upon me and tell me it is 
not true," he thought. 

But he knew it was true, and when he told 
himself that the man he had killed was his 
General his pain increased tenfold. The 
General had loved him and favoured him, 
been proud of him and upheld him, and 
never, down to the coming of this trouble, had 
their friendship been darkened by a cloud. 

" Oh, forgive me ! God forgive me ! " he 

In his blind misery, which hardly saw itself 
yet for what it was, the impulse came to him 
to carry the burden of his sin, too heavy for 
himself, to Helena, that she might help him 
to bear it ; and he had taken some steps 
towards the door leading to her room when 
it struck him as a blow on the bram that she 
was the daughter of the dead man, and he was 
going to her for comfort after killing her father. 

At that thought he stopped and laid hold 
of the desk for support, being so weak that 
he could scarce keep on his legs. He 
remembered Helena's love for the General, 
how much of her young life she had given to 
him, and how the quarrel that had divided 
himself from her had come of her determina- 
tion not to leave her father as long as he lived. 
And now he had killed him — he ! he ! he ! 

VoL xxxriL-ia 

Beads of sweat started from his forehead, 
but after a moment he told himself that, if he 
could not expect comfort from Helena, it 
was his duty to comfort her — to break the 
news to her. He saw himself doing so. 
" Helena, listen, dear ; be brave." " What is 
it?" "Your father— is— is dead." "Dead? 
" Worse — a thousandfold worse — he is mur- 
dered." " Murdered ? " " It was all in the 
heat of blood — the man didn't know what he 
was doing." " Who was it ? Who was it ? " 
" Don't you see, Helena? It was I." 

He had turned again to the door leading 
to Helena's room when another blow from an 
invisible hand seemed to fall upon him. He 
saw Helena's eyes fixed on his face in the 
intensity of her hate, and he heard her voice 
driving him away. "Go; let me never see 
you again." That was more than he could 
bear, and staggering to the sofa he sat down. 

Some minutes passed. The red glow in 
the room deepened to a dull brown, and at 
one moment there was a groan in the 
gathering gloom. He heard it and looked 
up, but there was nobody there, and then he 
realized that it was he who had groaned. At 
another moment his mind occupied itself 
with lesser things. He saw that one finger 
of his left hand was badly wounded, and he 
bound it up in his handkerchief. Then he 
looked at himself in a mirror that hung on 
the wall in front of the sofa, but he could not 
see his face distinctly — eyes, nose, and mouth 
being blurred. He did not attempt to escape. 
Never for an instant did it occur to him to 
run away. 

The sun went down behind the black 
pyramids across the Nile, and after a while the 
dead silence of the evening of the Eastern day 
was broken by the multitudinous cries of the 
muezzins, which came up from the city below 
like a deep ground-swell on a rugged coast. 

After that Gordon knelt again by the 
General's body, trying to believe it was not 
dead. The eyes were still open, but all the 
light was gone out of them, and seeing their 
stony stare the thought came to him that the 
General's soul was with him in the room. 
The stupor of his senses had suddenly given 
way to a supernatural acuteness, and at one 
moment he imagined he felt the touch of a 
hand on his shoulder. 

At the next instant he was plainly con- 
scious of a door opening and closing in the 
inner part of the house, and of light and 
rapid footsteps approaching. He knew what 
had occurred — Helena had been out on the 
terrace or in the parade-ground and had just 




She was now in 
the next room, 
breathing hard as if 
she had been run 
ning. He could hear 
the rustling of her 
silk underskirt and 
her soft step as she 
walked towards the 
door of the General^ 

At the next 
moment there came 
a knock, but Gordon 
held his breath and 
made no answer* 

Then "Father!" 
in a tremulous voice, 
full of fear, as if 
Helena knew what 
had happened. 

Still Gordon made 
no reply, and the 
frightened voice 
came again. 

" Are you alone 
now? May I come 
in ? " 

Then Gordon felt 
an impulse to throw 
the door open and 
confess ever) thing, 
saying : " I did it, 
Helena, but I didn't 
intend to do it- He 
threw himself upon 
me, and I flung him 
off and he fell, and 
that is the truth, as 
God is my witness." 

But he could not 
do this, because he 
was afraid. He who 

had never before known fear, he who had 
stood in the firing line when hordes of savage 
men had galloped down with fanatical cries 

he was trembling now at the thought of 
meeting a woman's face- 
So, treading softly, he stole out of the 
room by the outer door, the door leading to 
the gate, and as he closed it behind him he 
felt that the door of hope also was now for 
ever closed between Helena and him. 

But going through the garden he had 
to pass the arbour, and at sight of that a 
wave of tender memories swept over him, 
and in pity of Helena's position he wanted 


to return. She would 
be in her father's 
room by this time, 
standing over his 
dead body and alone 
in her great grief, 

"I will go back," 
he thought, "She 
has no one else. She 
may curse me, but 
I cannot leave her 
alone. I will go 
back — I will — 1 
must ! '"' 

That was what 
his soul was saying 
to itself, but at the 
same time his body 
was carrying him 
away — through the 
open gate and 
across tjie deserted 
sq uare, swi ftl y h 
stealthily, like i 
criminal leaving 
the scene of his 

The day was now 
gone, the twilight 
was deep, and as 
he passed under 
the outer port of 
the Citadel in the 
dead silence of the 
unquickened air, a 
voice like that of 
an accusing angel, 
telling of judgment 
to come, fell upon 
his ear. It was 
the voice of the 
last of the muezzins 
on the minaret of 
the Mohammedan mosque calling to evening 
prayer : — 

" God is Great ! God is Great ! " 


~-f3t — ■ i — I — ^ t — t^ ' 

fo"ig | «| rr l * m 


-rJl'luftl r 1 ^ 

AL - LA - 



byG* ( 

To bt continued.) 



Illustrated by Early Sketches of Character and from Originals in the 

Artist's Possession, 


NEVER had any idea of 
becoming an artist by pro- 
fession, not even in my 
briefless barrister days. Yet 
I made hundreds of sketches 
for publication, most of which 




are^ no doubt properly, buried in oblivion. 
I never drew from models, but odd characters 
in the London streets attracted me, and 1 
felt an irresistible desire to sketch them for 
my own amusement or the amusement of my 
friends/ 1 

Thus did Sir W. S. Gilbert 
his brusque, downright 
fashion of his own work as 
an artist in the pre "Bab 
Ballad " days* as we sat together 
in the sumptuous library at 
Grims Dyke. As to the illus- 
trations to the " Bab Ballads," 
the world has long since pro- 
nounced its opinion concern- 
ing them. In their humour, 
their quaintness, their indi- 
vidual quality, they are 
inimitable. It is safe to say 
that no set of drawings— 
so slight in technique — ever 
published have given such 
universal pleasure. I once 
saw some of them on a set of 
china plates made at Canton. 
They are as immortal as the a gay 

Ballads themselves. Can one say more in 
their praise ? 

How, therefore, I revelled in gazing upon 
scores of original pen-and-ink sketches done 


by Gilbert's own hand, recognising old friends 
—friends of a lifetime— yet with a difference, 
a change of expression in the face of the 
Bishop of Rum-ti-foo, " Lost Mr, Blake ,J 
who had lost his severity, and a decided 
alteration in the costume of the famous crew 
of the Hot Cross Bun* 

But even more interesting 
to me were a series of sketches 
of similar character, unknown 
to fame, which I myself had 
resurrected years before in 
the purlieus of Holywell 
Street — sk et ch es f u 1 1 of the 
same quality as those of the 
Ballads, and much more care- 
fully executed — "carried a 
little farther," as the technical 
expression is + I understood 
that these had been drawn for 
a book entitled 4i London 
Characters," by Henry May- 

" Nothing of the sort," 

said the author nf " Pina- 

^ ■ fore.fV " I called them 

f 0r '3^gL^iifiiil Studies,' and 








wrote the letterpress 
myself. I never illustrated 
for anybody but myself* 
Here is what 1 wrote : — 
11 * Who are these people 

A BIU-- 

who pass to 
and fro ? 
What lives 
are theirs ? 
, , . Hardly 
a man passes 

by who has not some more or less 
strongly-marked characteristic wh ich 
may serve to distinguish him from 
his fellows and give a clue to his 
previous history. Of course, the 
clue may be an erroneous one ; but 
if it should prove to be so, that is 
the fault of the sagacious soul who 
follows it up too closely * ; and so 
on, giving sketches of company-pro- 
moters, artists, officers from Aldershot, 
theatrical managers, cabmen, comedians, 
and journalists. This is not the first time 
I've heard of assertions of authorship in 
things I wrote myself. Only the other day 
I picked up a volume of autobiography 
and found the writer laying claim to an 
article I wrote for the Com hi I I forty odd 
years ago." 

To a student of Gilbert's plays and an 
appreciator of the humour called Gilbert) an 
it is most diverting to come across in these 
self-same "Thumbnail Studies'' the first 
" lead " in the mine which was to prove so 
rich in fun-bearing ore. Here are young 
Gilbert's first paradoxes, his chains of amus- 
ing sophistries, his topsyturvy syllogisms. 
He draws the picture of " a wicked old 
character" (page 139) whom he sees, in St. 
James's Street, and proceeds to describe him. 
" He is a gay old bachelor, of disgraceful 
habits and pursuits— a coarse old villain 
without a trace of gentlemanly or even manly 


feeling about him. He stands at his club 
window by day. At dinner he drinks himself 
into a condition of drivelling imbecility, from 
which he only arouses himself in time to 
stagger round to the nearest stage-door. His 
income is probably derived from the contri- 
butions of disgusted connections who pay 
him to keep out of their sight." 

But, of course, this reading of character 
may be all wrong, "As a rule it is better to 
think, but not to think too deeply. If we 
don't think at all our mind is but a blank : 
if we just glance below the surface 
we may, without difficulty, conjure 
up a host of pleasant paradoxes, 
the contemplation of which is 
enough to keep the mind amused 
and to give play to a healthy and 
fanciful reflection. But if we think 
too deeply we come to the reason 
of things — we destroy our visionary 
castles, we brush away our quaint 
theories, and we reduce every- 
thing to the absolute dead-level 
from which we started," 

When Gilbert drew the first 
illustration on this page he made 
up his mind that he was repre- 
senting a thriving bill-discounter. 
w He is an old gentleman who 
has, at various epochs in 
his career, been a wine- 
merchant, a cigar dealer, 
a Boulogne billiard- 
player, a trafficker in Army 
commissions, a picture- 
dealer, a horse-dealer, a 
theatrical manager, and a 
bill-discounter.' 1 

If you want to know 


what certain 
artists could look 
like in mid-Vic- 
torian times, 
direct your glance 
to the above Gil- 
bertian sketch of 
"an artistic char- 
latan. 7 ' We are 
told that "his get- 
up is astound irj^ly n A 


MlSSKABl.q r,HOS T. 







MR* |i]ftKK.[,3. 

professional, and his talk is studio slang. He 
never paints anything, but haunts studios and 
bothers hard-working craftsmen by the hour 
together. He has been all over the world, 
and knows every picture in every gallery of 
Europe. To hear him talk you would think 
he was the acknowledged head of his pro- 
fession. Certainly, as far as his exterior 
goes, there never was so artistic an artist 
(out of a comedy) as he." 

Gilbert presents u^with a whole gallery of 
characters, in many of whom we may detect 
both the germ and prototype of the personnel 
of his operas. 

Of the next sketch we are told that " he is 
awake to most things, and his only delusion 

is that, being a police- 
man in plain clothes. 

he looks like a prosperous shopkeeper, a 
confidential clerk* a nobleman of easy 
manners, or a country yokel in town for a 
1 spree/ according to the characters which 
the peculiarities of his several cases require 
him to assume. The more he disguises him- 
self/ 1 the author adds, "the more he looks 
the policeman in plain clothes" (page 140}. 
The type is a familiar one to-day. 

A type not so familiar is that of the 
M curious old bachelor of eccentric habits " 
to whom the famous playwright next intro- 
duces us. " Nobody knows much about him 
except a confidential manservant, who effec- 
tually defeats any attempt to pump him on 
the subject of his master's eccentricities. All 
that is known of him is that he lives in a 
lodging-house in Duke Street, St. James's, 








He has a horror 
of children and 
tobacco and a 
nervous dread of 
hansom cabs ; he 
lakes a walk be- 
tween two and 
three every after- 
noon f up St. 
James's Street, 
stopping regularly 
at Sams's to look 
at the profile pic- 
tures of distin- 
guished sporting 
and other noble- 
men, and finish- 
ing up with a Bath 

11 1 come, if you please, with the best intents 
And Qutttt Victoria's compliment*/' 


bun and a glass of cherry-brandy at 
the corner of Bond Street He is sup- 
posed by some to be a fraudulent 
banker, by others a disgraced clergy- 

man, by others an 
escaped convict of 
desperate charac- 
ter, and by the 
more rational por- 
tion of his ob- 
servers as a harm- 
less monomaniac. 
. . , There is a 
rumour afloat that 
he is a Royal 
descendant of 
Hannah Light foot, 
and that he is only 
waiting for an op- 
portunity to declare 
his rights and step 
at once into the 
throne of Eng- 
land" (page 140), 

A different note is struck here : 4t One of 
those miserable ghosts that start up from 
time to time in the London streets, to sicken 
the rich man of his wealth and to disgust the 
happy man with his happiness. ■ , * He 
is, of course, a thief; who, in his situation, 



He skipped for joy like little muttons ; 
He danced like fcsmeraldfTs kid. 



would not be ? He is a liar ; but 
his lies are told for bread. He is a 
blasphemer ; Clod help him, what has 
he to be thankful for ? ,J {page 140). 

Next is **a gentleman about whom 
there can be no mistake. He is a 
promoter of public companies, , , , 
He is a specious, showy t flashily- 
dressed, knowing-looking gentleman, 
with a general knowledge of most 
things and an especial and particular 
acquaintance with the manners and 
customs of fools in general" (p. 141), 

Gilbert's sketch of a theatrical 
manager might almost serve as a 
porlrsJ: of the artist himself in his 




The sergeant- major tntted t 
The others nursed their dolls. 

later years, although the possibility of this 
would probably have surprised him when he 
made the drawing nearly a half century ago* 
Speaking of such likenesses, might not the 
sketch on page 141 serve as a caricature of 
Mr. Birrell, minus his spectacles ? 

On the same page is also given a specimen 
of " that bland, gentlemanly, useful humbug, 
the fourth-rate family doctor. Although un- 
doubtedly a humbug, he is not a quack. He 
has satisfied the College of Surgeons and has 


passed the Hall with decency ; he has even, 
perhaps, graduated as M.B. at London, and 
is consequently styled l doctor ' by courtesy. 
But he is a humbug for all that/ 1 

Then follow two or three drawings by Sir 
William, made in the theatre as a young man, 
one a theatrical critic, another a lady repre- 
sentative " of that extensive element in most 
dress-circles which finds its way into theatres 
by means of free admissions. It is a curious 
feature in theatrical management — and a 
feature which doesn't seem to exist in any 
other form of commercial enterprise — that, if 
you can't get people to pay for admission, 
you must admit them for nothing. Nobody 
ever heard of a butcher scattering steaks 
broadcast among the multitude because his 
customers fall off; neither is there any 
instance on record of a banker volunteering 
to oblige penniless strangers with an agree- 
able balance. Railway companies do not 
send free passes for general distribution to 
eel- pie shops, nor does a baker place his 
friends on the free list*" 


If the characters in the front row of the pit 
have changed in these days, it is not so with 
the four-wheel cabman depicted on page 142, 
He might be drawn from life, Anno Domini 
1 90 9 } in many a Metropolitan quarter. 

In the case of the " Bab Ballads " drawings 
Sir William told me that he made a pre- 
liminary sketch in pencil, the outlines of 
which he afterwards transferred to a small 
wood- block. Here he continued the sketch, 
always in pencil. As time wore on and the 
block wore out he set about making a new 
set of drawings. These he executed in ink 
on Bristol board, working on the same minute 



He by no means adhered to his original con- 
ception always, as was to be seen in the case 
of several drawings. In some L preferred 
the first idea as 
well as the first 
execution. But 
in other in- 
stances the 
second drawing 
was the better or 
the funnier. 

Goschen, who 
was a great ad- 
mirer of the 
u Bab Ballads," 
was much 
astonished to 
find himself 
figuring in one 
of them — an 
amended one 
—a s Queen 
Victoria's naval 

representative (page 142). This was at a time 
when he had not yet decided to accept the 
post of First Lord of the Admiralty* The 
waggish picture perhaps influenced his 
decision, but his only comment was, M Now 
1 know why Gilbert looked at me so hard 
at the Academy dinner the other evening ! " 

In the same way, Robert Louis Stevenson 
can hardly have failed to recognise his own 
lineaments in the gentleman who figures as 
"The Disconcerted Tenor " (page 142). But 
Gilbert often has amused himself in this way, 
In one of his drawings Miss Fortescue appears 


seated at a piano, while as for his caricature 
of *the late Sir Eyre Massey Shaw, as a fire- 
man with the hose in his grasp, it has been 

pronounced a 
" wicked like- 
ness" (p. 142). 

In some of 
his designs the 
influence of Sir 
John Tenniel is 
manifest, and 
this without 
their ceasing to 
be characteristi- 
cally Gilbertian. 
In glancing at 
some, one 
would say that 
Punch lost a 
great cartoonist 
when it first 
discouraged Sir 
VV. S. Gilbert 
What a fund 
of observation is denoted in the picture of 
the two braw Scotsmen listening to Gong- 
l&cketty Angus M'Clan Corby Tor bay 
attempting to discourse the sweet strains of 
"In My Cottager- 
He bl«w at his [i cottage," and blew wiih a will, 
For a year, seven months, and a fortnight, until 
(You'll hardly believe it) M'Clan, 1 declare, 
Elicited something resembling an air. 

There is quite the professional cartoonist 
touch in the gentleman in Roman garb 
sipping his Falemian reproduced from the 
original drawing herewith. 

i They wore little underclothing— scarcely anything or nothing. 
And (heir dress of Cuan silk was quite [Transparent in design, 

by Google 

Original from 

THE PIT : A Tale of Nortk Australia. 


|OW that I've taken it and 
the matter's settled," said I, 
looking at Griscom, " I don't 
mind telling yob that it's 
exactly what I want." He 
nodded a sort of surly assent 
and turned to look, as I was looking, at the 
picture which the sunset was lighting with 
glories of crimson and gold. It shone upon 
the home paddock, enclosed on three sides 
by Horseshoe Lake. It shone, too, on mile 
after mile of pasture stretching beycmd the 
lake to Chamberlain Hills and their bold 
outline of crags stark against the sky. Far 
to the left was the illimitable blue of the sea. 
Far to the right another blue — the shim- 
mering azure of the heat haze over the paper 
barks and banyans of the jungle. My hqart 
swelled as I looked at it and knew it was mine. 
Is there a finer property in all Australia? 
Maybe — but I've never seen it 

11 There's only one thing I should like to 
know," I added. " Why are all your men 
leaving with you? You aren't taking up 
another run." 

It seemed to me that his face paled a 
shade or two nearer chalky white. 

,c They're restless," he said. " They're not 
bred to this country." 

" You'd think one or two of them would 
have settled to it by now," I said. " I'm 
willing to pay good money, too, for good 

He shook his head. He made an inarti- 
culate sound of dissent. 

" It's the foreman, Charlton, that 1 should 
particularly like to keep," I went on. " He 
tells me he's going to be married. His wife 
would be a help — when my wife comes up." 

At that he cried out suddenly. He whirled 
round and stared into my face. A sort of 
palsy seemed to have fallen on him — he 
beat the air with hands which he could not 

" Your wife I " he panted, thickly. " You're 
going to bring a wife — here f " 

I stared back at him in stupefaction. His 
face was scarcely human under its cloak of 
passion and — as it seemed — fear. 

" It's for her sake I'm coming North," I 

VoL xxjcvii.— 19. 

answered. " It's for her I want the dryness 
and the sun." 

He tottered, staggered nearer to me, and 
then stood, swaying. 

" Not a wife ! " he gasped. " You didn't 
tell me — I didn't know " 

He pitched forward suddenly, and lay 
upon the planking at my feet. 

So Fate laid her hand upon Ernest Griscom 
— and upon me. When a week later his 
foreman and I left him in the hospital at 
Port Darwin he had spoken no other word — 
made no other sign. He went down-country 
unconscious, and unconscious we left him 
in his cot. I went home — thinking. Of 
course, I asked questions. Of Charlton first 
of all. I offered him a rise of five-and- 
twenty pounds a year to stay. 

He smiled grimly. 

"No, thanks, boss," he said. "I've a 
billet on offer in Queensland." 

I looked at hiim keenly. 

"Is that your true" reason for leaving?" 
I asked. 

" No," he said, bluntly. "You could make 
it a hundred and I wouldn't stay ! " 

" You'll give no reason ? " 

He hesitated. Then his words came with 
a rush. 

" Fright's my reason," he snapped, defiantly. 
" I've stood it as a single man. You can't 
pay me anything to stand it as a married one." 

" Fright ? " I repeated the word in amaze- 
ment. " Fright of what ? " 

He made a gesture which spoke of help- 

"God knows," he said, "and I can't 
explain. But I'll tell you why Griscom's 
lying insensible in that hospital there. He 
thought that you were a man— alone. He 
thought that you might be fairly let in to face 
— it. But when he heard of your wife I 
reckon he remembered A?s" 

A cold chill cramped my heart. Did that 
mean that half my scanty capital was gone— 
that I had been robbed of it — by fraud ? 

"What's wrong?" I almost shouted. 
" What ahi I up against ? " 

" Is it bare facts you want ? " he asked, 
stolidly. "WeJi, then, things go from this 





run— sheep, calves, colts. Two months ago 
Afrs. Griscom went with ker child.' 1 

In my relief and in my incredulity I nearly 

" Went ! " I repeated " Went where ? " 

" How can I tell ? ,J he snarled, fiercely, 
his passion flaming out in the face of my 
evident disbelief. " I tell you they went — 
passed away — disappeared ! " 

I leaned forward till I nearly touched him. 
He drew back with a curse. 

" No ! " he said, though I had put no 
question into words, " No, there's no reek 
of spirits about trn — I'm dreaming no dreams 
out of a bottle, I tell you it's so % and God 
help you if you wait to prove it ! " 

I stared at him again. The force of his 
pent passion was overwhelming, hut how 
could a sane man take such a statement in 
seriousness ? 

Digitized by dOOgle 

"The niggers?" 
I suggested, "The 

"So we all 
thought, at first. 
Sheep or calves ? 
Why, naturally they 
go where there's no 
police within a 
hundred miles and 
the tubras and 
piccaninnies want 
feeding. You find 
a colt or a steer 
speared. You curse 
— and write 'em off 
a dead loss. But 
these went and left 
no trace," He 
turned and pointed 
to the line of hills 
which bounded the 
green emptiness of 
the plain, " There s 
where they went — 
into those ravines. 
They say they are 
old volcanoes there 
— that may be or 
not, All I know 
is that half a 
hundred bullocks 
have been lost 
where there isn't a 
boulder big enough 
to hide a dingo. 
There are chasms 
there — bottomless 
ones, but why 
should they jump down them, unless — — ,? 
" Unless ?** I repeated, as he hesitated. 

"Unless J> 

"Unless the devil himself came out and 
lured them in ! " 

I smiled a little contemptuously. 
"They got bushed, i: I said "Why 
shouldn't they?" 

" Bushed ! " His scorn was withering. 
" How can stock and human beings—aye, 
there was a Chinese cook went before Mrs* 
Griscom — get bushed on bare rocks where 
there's nothing to hide a dog except a few 
wild figs the size of a currant bush or lumps 
of grass the width of your hand ? They 
didn't go South — towards the jungle ! They 
went North — North- — North — they went into 
the hills, and they went — for ever ! " 

"And his wife?" I asked* "She went— 
when?" Original from 




" Not two months back. He saw her go!" 
I started. I stared at him blankly. . 
" Saw her?" I cried. "Saw her?" 
He nodded sullenly. 

" She went, as Tom Cash, the cook, went, 
to find wild chicory for salad. She took the 
child with her. The boss saw her running — 
after the child, we suppose, but he was half a 
mile away — too far to be certain. Anyway, 
he galloped up, left his horse, and ran 
among the boulders to find her. He found 
— nothing ! " 

" Not a sign ? " 

" Not the speck of one. He spent hours 
there. He galloped back at sundown and 
roused us up with lanterns. We spent every 
day of the next six there, though we had 
been over it, and twice over it, in two. I tell 
you those chasms are the highway to the pit 
itself, and — and something comes out and 
draws man and beast to leap in after him ! " 

My face hardened. 

"Thank you, Charlton," I said, dryly, 
" but you can hardly expect me to agree with 
you as far as that. I've sunk capital here, 
and I shall see this thing out No doubt the 
poor lady and child fell into the chasm you 
speak of. That's the explanation on the face 
of it." 

He laughed bitterly. 

" They just naturally would," he sneered. 
"And those sheep and calves, of course, 
couldn't help doing it, they'd be so tickled 
with the notion of jumping down a hole after 
nothing at all And the colts — and Tom 

I shrugged my shoulders. 

" I shall tell my wife not to go near the 
place till I've investigated," I said. " As for 
the stock, if the run is anything like as good as 
it looks it will pay to wire that end — if I must." 

He flung up his hands hopelessly. 

" Wire ! There's no wire made to corral 
stock in and keep that thing out. Haven't I 
seen — what I've seen?" He shrugged his 
shoulders again. " But go your way, and 
thank God if it takes only a few head of 
cattle to prove you wrong. You've had your 
warning — you won't be able to throw that up 
against me — now!" 

I may be obstinate. For five-and-thirty 
years, at any rate, beginning with my old 
nurse and my mother, people have been 
telling me that I am ; but there was more 
than obstinacy behind me then. It meant 
my whole career. And, perhaps, if you could 
have seen the Bulla-Bulla run you would 
have understood me even better. No ; I 
hardened my heart. I looked at the well- 

watered acres, I looked at the lagoort. ^ Come 
what might I was not going to give that up 
without a struggle, and Iknew Nell would 
say I was right - 

So I didn't argue with Charlton. I saw 
him and his men go without further persua- 
sion, and I merely wired my old foreman, 
George Bean, who was coming up with a mob 
of seaborne cattle from Perth, to bring half- 
a-dozen likely hands with him. I was offer- 
ing a pound a month over current prices — I 
could afford to do that, seeing how cheaply I 
had got my run — and I knew I could trust 
him to bring good men. 

He did. Within three weeks they were all 
with me, and Nell arrived the same day. She 
was charmed with the place, but George 
Bean's raptures over the pasture were good 
to hear. He simply chuckled over Charlton's 
yarn when I told it him— in fact, so absorbed 
was he in staring at the steers, and seeing 
them positively swell with fatness under our 
very eyes, that I doubt if he gave it serious 
attention at all. 

Then the first blow fell. 

Jim Morgan, the leading stockman, had a 
hut built for him and another man out on 
the far side of the run. They lived there 
pretty well all the time, but cantered over to 
get supplies or swap news once or twice 
a week. One morning we saw him coming 
across the plain like a cyclone. He didn't 
stop to lift any rails — he cleared them with 
about a yard to spare — or it looked like it 

" There's two young steers gone, boss ! " 
he cried, as he jumped off. "Two yearling 
steers and my dog Tip ! " 

" Gone ! " I echoed, sharply. " Gone 
where ? " 

" Nowhere I " he said. "Just gone. Caught 
up to the sky, or swallowed up by the earth. 
But gone, anyway ! " 

" You've been listening to that silly yarn 
about the place," I said, sternly. " What do 
I pay you wages for ? To find steers that have 
gone, not to come whining to me to help you." 

" I tell you, boss," he answered, sullenly, 
"that they've gone, and they went as good 
as under my very eyes. I saw them loping 
quietly into the hills. I cantered after them, 
and sent Tip on to round them back. They 
and the dog turned a corner of the rocks. 
They didn't show again, but I thought — I 
won't be certain — that I heard Tip snarl once. 
When / reached the corner there was — 
nothing ! You know that long canyon that 
reaches right back into the heart of the hill ? 
Well, that was the place, and it was as empty 
as a broken bucket ! '' 




I knew the canyon and I looked at George 
Bean. We neither of us said anything, but 
with one consent we turned into the paddock, 
caught our horses, and saddled up. He was 
just as well aware as I was that nothing could 
climb out of that ravine. What went into it 

stayed there or I didn't go to the 

trouble of meditating on an alternative. The 
pits of which Charlton had spoken were in 
that defile, that was all. 

We found Parsons, Morgan's pal, waiting 
for us at the edge of the plain, and, to make 
a long story short, we four examined the 
canyon from end to end. There were sheer 
precipices on either side of it, and it was 
naturally strewn with boulders, but there 
wasn't one big enough to conceal a dingo, 
much less two nearly full-grown steers. At 
the entrance there was a deep black pool, 
and beside it were hoof marks, but they had 
passed. The cattle, if they were ours, had 
not stopped to drink. 

I halted on the edge of the biggest pit 
and looked down. 

" It might go clean through and come out 
in Yorkshire," said George Bean, as he stood 
beside me. "7 can't see a bottom." 

No more could I. In the shadow of the 
cliffs the hole narrowed away into the dark- 
ness, smooth and straight as a lift well I 
shuddered as I looked down. Fancy falling 
into that — falling, falling, falling, into the 
very bowels of the earth, as it might be, con- 
sidering where volcanoes start from and that 
this was the pipe of one. 

II All the same," I objected, " steers and 
dogs and human beings don't leap down a 
thing like that without very strong persuasion. 
But I think we may as well wire the entrance 
of the valley in." 

I cantered home, feeling sobered, and 
wrote to Port Darwin for five thousand yards 
of wire. Then I told Nell all about it. 
Because, believe the yarn or not as I might, 
I was not going to take any risks of her 
sharing Mrs. Griscom's fate. 

She took it quite differently from what I 
had expected. 

" But it's a splendid mystery — it's wonder- 
ful ! " she cried. " I never heard anything 
more exciting. Let's write to the Psychical 
Research Society and ask them to send an 
investigator. What fun we'll have ! " 

" For the present you'll find your fun at 
this end of the run," I said, severely, " and 
after the wire's up I must have your promise 
not to cross it." 

She argued. We both of us got very near 
to losing our tempers over it, but I got her 

promise. She said, of course, that Mrs. 
Griscom and her child had fallen into the 
hole— that that was the only explanation 
possible. When I asked why half a hundred 
beasts had followed their example she owned 
that it was queer, but vastly interesting. We 
compromised in the end. She gave her 
word, but I promised to take and show her 
the place some day. I meant to put that 
day off — a bit. Well, it's no use telling you 
in detail how each head of cattle disappeared 
from that time on. They went — just as 
Charlton had described. Generally calves — 
sometimes sheep — once a colt. 

It began to tell on the nerves of every- 
body. Morgan and Parsons hardly dared to 
take their proper sleep. For a short interval 
all would go right, then as sure as fate a calf 
would be missing. The bald fact began to 
stare me in the face that a discount of at 
least a hundred beasts per annum would 
have to be written off the profits of the run. 

Then we got the wire. 

We railed off the entrance of the ravine 
with four strands, and for a week nothing 
happened. Bean and I began to grin and 
congratulate ourselves. There was only one 
queer thing about it. The cattle huddled 
themselves up against the fence at times, and 
stretched their necks towards the hills and 
lowed by the hour. When the herders rode 
them off into the run they grazed peaceably 
enough, but, as sure as anything, after a time 
they'd begin to edge back, and the whole 
performance had to be gone over again. 

Then one night the wire was broken. 

Parsons swore that he had patrolled it only 
an hour before, but he returned to find a gap 
in it, half the cattle inside and half out, and 
three steers missing. No traces on those 
rocks, of course, and the cattle might have 
broken out by their own weight. We could 
tell nothing for certain. 

Then I determined to take a hand myself. 
I turned the whole of the hands on to patrol 
the fence night and day for a week. It was 
never left unobserved for a single second. 
On the eighth night I took off the guard, but 
I myself, with a revolver in my belt, was 
hidden behind a stone which commanded a 
view not only of the fence but of the ravine 
itself. I was about a furlong from the black 
pool at the foot of the cliff. There had been 
weather out at sea, and a scud of light clouds 
was blowing in, but the moonlight shone 
fitfully between them. 

Through the night I stared and stared and 
stared. Now and again a cow lowed to her 
calf out on the plain. Once I heard that 




rare sound, the bark of a dingo. But, with 
the exception of the ceaseless swish of the 
wind in the grass and the wild fig bushes, 
there was silence* And the hours went by, 
creepily and crampily. I began to yearn for 
morning — and a pipe. 

It was within a short hour of dawn, and I 
had begun to feel half sleepily for a match, 
when a tiny noise, like the clatter of a 
pebble dropping from the cliff, roused me. 
I thought, too, that I heard a tiny splash. 

I wheeled round softly and looked keenly 
towards the pool. A moment later there 
was another splash — a bigger one this time. 
The moonlight fell upon a circle of white 
ripples widening towards the shore. A black 
dot moved in the middle of them and a 
black figure crawled out of the water and up 
the stones. With incredible swiftness it rose 
and ran down the slope towards the plain. 

I had on tennis shoes, and as I rose and 
followed I made no noise. I didn't under- 
stand the thing — how anything human, and 
this was a human being my eyes assured me, 
could rise from that pool ; but I was well 
satisfied. After all the fright and the mystery 
and Charlton's solemn warnings it was niggers 
after all — Myalls, beef-hunting as usual. And 
then I suddenly found that I had lost my 
man. Whether he had sunk into the grass 
and was wriggling, whether he had heard or 
seen tne and fled, whether he had simply 
outdistanced me, I could not tell. I had lost 
him — that was enough. 

It did not take me long to decide what to 
do. I wheeled round and crept back. The 
entrance to the ravine was no more than a 
couple of hundred yards wide — or a little 
more. If I took my station in the middle of 
it, it would be queer if anything could pass 
me unseen. 

I waited — minute after minute. Then 
faint, but distinct, came the sound of hoofs 
among the herbage — the blowing and snort- 
ing of a mob of steers as they came eagerly 
and swiftly up the slope. They seemed to 
halt about a hundred yards below me, where 
the rocks began. 

But some — or perhaps one only — con- 
tinued towards me. I sank lower and lower 
among the stones, for the first grey light 
of dawn was showing over the crags. Then 
something blew at the little stones near me. 
The pebbles clicked, and I saw a likely 
young bullock stride quickly past. 

I was on the point of rising, when another 
dark figure came into view, keeping a watch- 
ful thirty yards behind Once it darted for- 
ward, as the steer turned, and flung a stone at 

it. The startled animal cantered on up the 

I felt I had got him now, whoever he was. 
The light was increasing. The crag walls 
gave him no way ot escape. I leapt to my 
feet. I had covered ten yards before I was 
heard. If I had not unsettled a boulder 
I might almost have reached him. But it 
clattered as it rolled over, and was answered 
by a faint and very shrill cry of fear. The 
dark shadow darted forward. 

I steadied my revolver and fired. I missed. 
I heard the bullet flatten itself upon one of 
the farther crags as I started in pursuit. 
Still running, I lifted my revolver again. 

I still ran steadily. I began to dwell upon 
my aim. I covered him, drew a very careful 
bead, half halted, began to press the trigger 
delicately. The thing was gone ! 

And I ? I gave a gasp, I flung myself 
back, 1 gripped frantically at the loose stones 
which my fall had set flying. I slipped, 
rolled, slid on a pace, and then, very slowly, 
very grudgingly, came to a halt. 

I was on the brink of the pit. Another 
yard and I should have been in ! 

And the fugitive ? He had escaped indeed. 
With outflung arms, desperately but very 
deliberately, he had leaped into the blackness 
of the abyss. 

I panted as, slowly and with infinite care, I 
drew myself back. My heart was going in 
great throbs. I shivered as I realized what I 
had escaped. But with every step I took as 
I stumbled off down the slope into the grow- 
ing light of morning I began to feel more and 
more triumphant. For I had solved the 
mystery — and, what was more, had written 
" Finis " to it. No man who had leaped into 
that pit could return to trouble me again ! 

An hour later every soul on the run had 
heard my story and all had come to the same 
conclusion. Some crazy Myall, outcast from 
his tribe, had made his lair among the rocks 
and had found a malignant pleasure in driving 
my cattle to their death. Probably Mrs. 
Griscom and the Chinaman had caught him 
at his tricks and had fallen — as I had nearly 
done — into the chasm, while the fugitive had 
escaped. And the next morning another 
mystery was solved. At the entrance to the 
ravine Parsons found a "rock-salt lick." No 
wonder the beasts had found an attraction at 
that end of the run — no wonder they had 
stampeded for the hills when they got a 
chance. A bullock will travel miles for salt, 
as you all know, and the miscreant had 
found his task of driving them to destruction 
easy enough. The tension of our nerves 





relaxed, Morgan was the only one who still 
looked doubtful 4t Why didn't the beggar 
ever kill one for food ?" he asked, *' instead 
of luring them down a pit where the beef 
could be good for nobody ? " But we didn't 
trouble to supply an answer ; we were quite 
satisfied. I even promised Nell that we 
would picnic on the spot before the week 
was out , for her to have a look at the 
"shrine of mystery," as she called it. 

And so — yes, I'm hoarse, for my lips 
always parch when I get to this part of the 
story— next evening but one she and I 
cantered up to Morgan's hut with our little 
satchel of provisions, borrowed a billy to boil 
water, left our horses, and with Frantic, our 
fox-terrier, strolled up to the mouth of the 

We stood together on the brink of the pit 
and looked down. Nell clutched my arm, 
and I felt a tremor run through her. 

( * Do you think she — Mrs, Griscom— saw 
her child fall into that — down, down, down?'' 
she asked, shakily. 

! by Google 

I shrugged my shoulders, 

" If they fell, let us hope they fell together,* 
I said, quietly. " We'd better not look down 
any more, dear It's not a subject that will 
bear much thinking about" 

Vet in spite of her fear she turned away 
almost unwillingly. It seemed as if the place 
had a sort of fascination for her, 

"One can't help fancying — them — lying 
there — ■ unburied — in the blackness/* she 
murmured "Is there no way — to make 
certain. Jack ?" 

I shook my head, 

" We can do them no good, poor things," 
said I, "so, for your own sake, forgat about 
it. I don't want to have you dreaming to- 
night. I'm a little sorry I brought you. 
Where are we going to build our fire? 
\VVd better go back to the slope ; there 
are some stunted pines at the entrance 
of the ravine which will do famously for 

She saw that I wanted to turn the trend of 
hrr thoughts and, like the dear girl she is, 




met roe half-way at once. She began to look 
about her and point out various spots where 
we could build our fire, but I found objections 
to most of them till I had edged her away 
out of sight of the pit and the rocks which 
overhung it. 

Down below we found some good stones 
to balance the billy on. Then I began to 
strip the branches from one pine and Nell 
from another. Frantic began sniffing for 
imaginary dingoes among the boulders. 

Suddenly she gave a snarl, followed by 
half-a-dozen fierce barks. 

I guessed what had happened. She had 
come upon a snake. I whistled to her to 
leave it. She has a good idea of taking care 
of herself, but snakes are snakes — I have lost 
nearly a dozen dogs by them. 

She didn't come — she went on barking. 
By the sound of it she was running back 
towards the ravine. The tree was between 
me and the direction she had taken, so I 
called out to Nell. 

" What is she up to ? " I cried. " Make 
her come to heel." 
There was no answer. 
I stepped from behind the tree. My wife 
was not where she had been a moment 
before. She was running, too — after Frantic. 
A queer, choking sensation took me by the 
throat. I began to run myself in pursuit 
of her. 

I heard her whistle once or twice faintly, 
but she was evidently out of breath and 
Frantic paid no attention. As I passed round 
the corner of the rocks the whole of the 
ravine came into view. And then my heart 
seemed to stand still. 

Two dark figures had risen on the edge of 
the pooL They both carried mitpurdingos 
—the native club — and they flung them at 
the little dog. 

Poor Frantic was taken fair and square. 
With a squeal she rolled over, and the thrower, 
with an exultant cry, leaped forward and 
snatched her up* " My wife cried out, too, 
in anger. 

I doubt if she had been seen till then, for 
the black figures whirled round with a startled 
air. For a moment they fled several paces 
backwards. Then they hesitated, halted, 
exchanged some words, and finally flung the 
dog on the ground. Then they swept down 
upon my wife. 

I shouted — my voice leaped shrilly into 
the fierceness of despair. And I ran — God 
knows I ran as I had never run before. 
I plucked my revolver from my waist. I 
hesitated a hundred times to use it — and 

forebore. A bullet among those three 
stru ggling forms — which of them might it 
not reach ? 

They closed in on her. I saw her struggles, 
heard her cries, leaped towards her with the 
strength which is born of frenzy alone. 

Too late ! She was in their grip ; their 
arms enfolded her, lifted her, bore her 
shoulder-high. They ran, incredibly fast, 
towards the pit — the pit ! 

They were but fifty yards from it — and 
from me. They did not halt — they did not 
hesitate — no merciful stumble stayed them. 
They ran, relentlessly, unswervingly, scattered 
the loose pebbles on the brink, poised 
themselves, and leaped — far out into the 
void ! The white of my wife's dress shone 
dark against the stone as it disappeared — 

And I? 

Could I, or any man in like case, see that 
eternal night close upon life's sunshine and 
be left standing, alone? 

No! With every nerve in my body aflame, 
I leaped as they had leaped, out into the 

Something crashed and rustled behind me. 
I struck it and rebounded. I was tossed off 
again into space, again hit an obstacle which 
yielded — shot out into the air — for the third 
time met a softly brittle mass which broke 
before the shock, burst through it, repeated 
the experience half-a-dozen times, on each 
occasion fell a short and yet shorter space, 
felt my fall degenerate finally into a slide, 
and brought up an instant later on my back 
upon a heap* of pungent-smelling rubble. 

Dust rose about me in clouds. I was 
dazed, bruised, and shaken, but, as far as I 
could tell, unharmed. Something had hit 
me violently across the knees as I fell. I 
clutched at it and found— the butt of my 

There was a screaming — shrill yells of 
terror. A red light flashed before my eyes. 
Stupidly, half-consciously I stared before me. 

Huddled against the walls of rock were a 
dozen black forms, struggling, fighting, 
striving, each one of them, to find shelter 
among companions from the wavering menace 
of my pistol The whites of many savage 
eyes flashed fearfully in the light of a couple 
of torches which had been flung upon the 

With incredulous wonder I recognised 
that the struggling forms were all lubras— 
native women ! 

And then — I .saw something else. A 
couple of yards aivay irae other figures — 




white ones, these. And one — God be 
thanked ! — was Nell, my wife, alive, tottering, 
but unharmed even as myself. 

I gave a cry — I sprang towards her — I 
took her in my arms. 

And then, with a sudden rush, the mob of 
women separated and fled. Shrieking, they 
dashed by and plunged like phantoms into 
the darkness behind me. Unknowingly I 
had been guarding the gate of their escape ! 
We were left alone, we five. The other 
three? Surely I need hardly tell you who 
they were? Mrs, Griscom, her daughter, 
and the Chinaman, Tom Cash. 

Yes ; like all mysteries it was simple enough 
when you came to probe it. First, how did 
we get out, you say? Naturally, by the pool! 
No ; there was no secret cave leading into It 
below the surface. It was far simpler than 

that. A hole, 
screened by a 
ledge, opened 
out into the cliff 
above it When 
the women 
wanted to come 
out for their beef 
raids, they simply 
dropped into the 
pool and swam 
ashore. No 
wonder I thought 
they had risen 
out of it ! No 
wonder, indeed ; 
but the other 
mystery — the 
mystery of the 
pit — was nearly 
as simple, too. 
The whole thing 
arose out of a 
sort of nigger, 
"Votes for 
Women " move- 
ment ! 

A lub ra, 
knocked about 
by her buck, had 
fled to the hills. 
By accident, 
when peering 
down, she had 
fallen into the 
pit. And she 
had reached the 
bottom alive, as 
we had reached 
it, and unhurt 
This was the secret of it. 

Near the bottom, four fifths of the way 
down, there was an outcropping of wood — a 
sort of stratum of buried and ancient forest. 
Ledge below ledge it ran, in rings, covered — 
as was natural— by huge growths of fungi. 
They were fed by the percolations of water 
from the stone, and the rings narrowed more 
and more towards the bottom, till each ohject, 
dropped from above, was relaxed from tier to 
tier till finally it reached the accumulated 
deMs of broken growths on the pit floor. It 
was as if one fell into the grip of waiting 
arms, which tossed one from hand to hand* 
to let one fall at last upon a feather bed. 
It was a very complete artifice of Nature's, 
and practically an indestructible one, for the 
broken fungus renewed itself sometimes in 
a night Original fronn 





Well, the pioneer of the Myall Woman's 
Movement had gathered herself up, found 
the way— after many attempts — which led up 
to the passage a hove the pool, returned to 
her tribe, and found a dozen I u bras and gins 
willing to take sanctuary with her. There 
they had lived for two years or more, existing 
comfortably enough on Gri scorn's beef. 

The child they 
had kidnapped 
in mere wanton- 
ness ; Mrs* Gris- 
com because they 
could not afford 
to let her go, 
Turn Ca*h fell in 
by accident. All 
three told what 
they knew with a 
queer sort of un- 
willingness. None 
of them seemed 
inclined to grow 
discursive on the 
subject As far 
as one could 
gather they 
weren't actively 
ill treated But 
down there, with 
those women for 
warders — some- 
times in darkness 
for hours to- 
gether—well, one 
can imagine 

Griscotn ? 

Poor chap, he 
had a relapse 
when he was dis- 
charged from 
hospital and saw 
his wife. Of 
course, he 
thought she was 
a ghost, but it 
was only a 
matter of time 10 
put that right. 
And he came 
back to Bulla- 
Bulla- Yes, as 
my partner. 
The run, as I 
expected* carried 
twice as much 
capital as I 

VoL xxxvii — 30l 

could supply. We Ye not poor men now, 
either of lis. 

Hut he stays this end of the run— he has 
never been know r n to cross that wire fence 
which I put up— and there is just one thing 
which his wife and Nell and I never mention 
to him. 

That is, the Pit, 





-"* I 

A nub of ihe London Hoapil*! pack led by H. G. Mootcith, ihe Scouith International. 

The Revival in Rugby Football. 


HERE is no doubt that the 
New Zealanders revived the 
game of Rugby football. Deny 
it who may j the Rugby game 
in England had been steadily 
going downhill in popularity 
and in the effectiveness of its representatives 
on the International field until the famous 
tours of the New Zealand and South African 
teams of 1905-06-07 not only reawakened 
public interest, but served simultaneously, 
though gradually, to improve the play in 
English Rugby circles. The revival dates 
from the Devon and New Zealand match of 
September, 1905, when, meteor like, the 
"All Blacks," as they are best known, 
"arrived"' in the football firmament with an 
astounding score of 9 goals {one penalty) 4 
tries, or 55 points, to 1 dropped goal — 4 points. 
For some little time experts had been 
pointing out how moderate the standard of 
play in England was. They were regarded 

merely as croakers. The International 
matches were entered upon rather in a 
spirit of " How few points shall we be 
beaten by?" rather than "How many 
points shall we win by?" The annual 
defeats of England's fifteen had a most 
disheartening effect upon the game, not 
only in England but in the other three 
countries as well. It seemed impossible to 
get out of the ruck of failure into which 
English Rugby had fallen. Starts of club 
matches, while never famous for punctuality, 
became later and later. Players, with rare 
exceptions, did not always play right through 
the game from start to finish. Many in 
every match seemed only too pleased when 
the game was over. The standard of play 
was very low, and at times most depressing 
to old Rugby men and lovers of the game. 
The failure of the predominant partner was 
plainly reflected in the attendance at the big 
matches- Then arrived the meteor above 



alluded to. At once it was understood that 
a new force had arisen in the Rugby world. 

Right on top of the New Zealand tour 
came the next season hot-foot — the even 
mon.* successful tour, in some ways 3 of the 
South African team. The New Zealanders 
were beaten once T the South Africans twice. 
The latter had rather tougher opponents 
to meet than their predecessors had had, the 
record of the New Zealanders having revived 
some of the fire latent in the breasts of many 
of our players* It was patent to any close 
observer who happened also to possess a 
respectable knowledge of the game that our 
fellows were beginning to play better football 
long before the South African tour was over. 
So obvious was this to me so far as England 
was concerned that, writing in the Fortnightly 
Review at the end of the 1906^07 season, 
when the South African tour was over, I was 
able to foretell, with an accuracy which, I 
am willing to admit, astonished me after- 
wards, the great advance made by England's 
representatives in the International season of 

Now t among all who attend the fortunes 
of our leading teams in football or cricket, it 
is common knowledge how popularity follows 
the winning side, just as trade follows the 
Flag, To the im- 
partial observer it 

does not matter in 

the least which side 

wins a match, but 

given one such 

impartial observer 

an a Saturday after- 

noon, watching A 

and B struggle for 

supremacy, it is a 

guinea to a goose- 
berry that on the 

following Saturday 

he will go to see 

play again which- 
ever of the two was 

the winner on the 

occasion of his first 

I have made a 

very close study of 

the game in the 

four countries for 

some time, and I 

have no hesitation 

in saying that the 

standard of play 

was last year a 

good deal higher 


in England than it had heen for five years 
previously. This quite apart from the results. 
The advent of accomplished athletes in the 
shape of Rhodes scholars to Oxford has not 
been without its effect on the general advance. 
The honour of a Rugby Blue is coveted 
almost as much as a rowing or a cricket Blue 
by the youngsters from our public schools, so 
it follows that, to keep pace with the Rhodes 
scholar invasion^ our homegrown talent has, 
in sporting parlance, to "buck up" to be in 
the hunt at all, So it comes about that the 
Oxford University fifteen of 190; -'oS was 
an exceptionally good one, and has proved 
to be an even better one this season. 

The Rugby game at the Universities enjoys 
double the amount of popularity meted out 
to Association football, an ordinary college 
Rugby match attracting a bigger crowd than 
in pre- A. R A. days a match between the 
University '* Soccer " team and a leading 
League club's eleven. 

It is appropriate to notice a few of the 
players who have done not a little— and many 
of whom will yet do a great deal more — 
towards this general revival. 

The news conies as I am writing this 
article that that great forward and leader of 
forwards, I. C Geddes, has retired. List 

I c QFppEi'-linalTfonr 
" llflfv'ERaty OF MICHIGAN 



less space than is necessary wherein to 
swing the proverbial cat Now a flourishing 
doctor at Sketty, near Swansea, I)r, E, T. 
Morgan will always be remembered as one 
of the great men of the Rugby game. Like 
many another he retired too soon. 

It is worth remarking that the will of the 
late Cecil Rhodes and other causes have 
combined to aid the revival of Rugby foot- 
ball We have now within our gates an 
annual eiop of ready-made Colonials; most 
go up to Oxford, but many to the hospitals. 
Among the latter is a clipping good outside- 
half — A. S. Heale, of London Hospital 
Fielding is his strongest point ; he handles 
beau ti fully, going at full speed and taking 
the ball at any angle. An English "cap" 
is his due, and one day he will get it. The 
sooner the better for England's third 

Whatever the present Australian team have 
or have not given us, they have shown us a 
great full back, It is usual to leave the 
full backs of the day to the last, I suppose. 
However, it is certain that Lyon and 
Carmichael are the two best playing. The 
Australian has no equal in the art of getting 
length in touch when standing close to the 
touch line. His only weakness is that he 


season, during the Wales and Scotland 
match at Swansea, he fell on his 
head, being rather severely injured, 
and was obliged to give up the 
game for a time. He reappeared 
before the season ended, and as I 
have seen him practising assiduously 
at Richmond this season I can only 
hope the report of his retirement is 
to be falsified. While he was in the 
London Scottish pack it was one of 
the best in town. No forward fairly 
on the move took more stopping 
than Geddes, who; like so many 
other "Rugi»er M men, is "something 
in the City." 

I have sometimes wondered, while 
watching li Teddy " Morgan, whether, 
for his inches, the game lias ever 
seen his like* He could get into his 
stride quicker than any wing I ever 
saw, and then manoeuvre in much 







cannot kirk left footed A fine tackier, 
he has speed, a very safe pair of hands, 
and a very unsightly-looking cap— which 
he wore in every match until the return 
Ijnndon game at Blackheath, 

The New Zealand -England fixture at 
the Crystal Palace, when McGregor scored 
four of New Zealand's five tries for the 
Colonials, was the occasion of a hopeless 
mess made by the Knglish selectors. 
They nominated J, E, Raphael to play as 
"rover" among the English backs, A 
good — and very nearly a great — centre 
three - quarter on his day, Raphael's 
abilities were lost to England on that 
occasion. The rest of the English team 
appeared to be obsessed with the idea 
chat Raphael was to do everything for 
England Meanwhile the astute New 
Zealanders nursed the touch - line and 
played the blind side game, scoring tries 
which our rover could scarcely have pre- 
vented even if wearing seven-league boots, 
for the simple reason that he was in 
quite another part of the field, occupied 




in countering the "bluffing" division, 
and being of no use to his side at the 
point where real danger threatened. 
Raphael always gave of his best up 
at Oxford, He still plays, and, a 
stanch supporter of woman s suffrage, 
contemplates standing for Parliament 
for Croydon. 

No article on the revival in the 
Rugby game is complete without 
reference to the naval lieutenant, 
G. H. D'CX Lyon, about the means 
of part of whose transit in order to 
be in time to play in a county match 
this season questions were asked in 
Parliament. Lyon's methods as a last 
line of defence — I speak of his game, 
not of his profession — are like those 
of his calling — absolutely British. 
His play is characterized by a bulldog 
tenacity of purpose and a straight- 





■ ■« 

- i ■ 


G. H. DO. LYON. 

forward bang-straight ahead style which w T ill, 
when the day comes for him to give orders 
from the bridge, stand him in good stead. 
One of the delights of modern Rugby foot- 
ball is to see the sturdy way this full back 
gets out of difficulties born of fine work by 
the opposition or the poor play of his own 
three- quarters. As England's full-back, he 
has, too, the right name for the job, Long 
rtiay it be before this player goes on foreign 

In October, 1906, A. O. Jones, the 
English cricket captain and ex-Leicester and 
Midland Counties " Rugger " three-quarter 
and full back, tefereed the match at 
Headingley between the South Africans and 

Yorkshire. It was, I believe, his first big 
game, and he was an immediate success. 
It is perfectly true that a referee can abso- 
lutely mar a game of Rugby football, though 
he cannot make one. Since Jones 5 arrival 
another set of referees has sprung up — men 
who dress for the part and who are " up " with 
the ball. Last season Jones was in Australia, 
and last season much of the refereeing in 
International matches was very bad. Facts, 
and a coincidence! This year he is with 
us, and has refereed more important games 
than anyone. For which relief, say the 
spectators , a thousand thanks. He referees 
the game in its truest spirit, and is not one 
of those arbitrators who suffer from the 
notion that the game is made for the referee, 
and not the referee for the game, 

by t^iC 


Original from 




Y poor father died insane," 
said the young man ; " Sir 
Stephen Drake, the judge, 
you know." 

" Ah, yes ! " replied the 
eminent specialist, " I re- 
member. A sad case, a very sad case." 

" And my uncle Arthur — Professor Drake 
of Liverpool— broke down with brain trouble 
some years before the end of his life." 

"A distressing family history, no doubt. 
And you are not unnaturally anxious on your 
own account, Mr. Drake?" 

" Yes," replied Wallace Drake, " I seem to 
detect certain premonitory symptoms — a 
giddiness in the morqing, an inability to con- 
centrate my attention, unaccountable slight 
lapses of memory, and frequent headaches. 
It may be nothing at all, but I thought I 
should like to have the benefit of your advice, 
and to know the worst, if there is a worst." 

" Certainly. I am no great believer in 
hereditary mental disease. Nine-tenths of it, 
I fancy, is due to suggestion, or auto-sugges- 
tion. Still, with the warnings you have had 
you do well to seek an expert opinion, so far 
as any of us can be called experts in these 
obscure matters. Your general health is 
fair ? " And the doctor glanced at his visitor's 
tall, well-balanced figure which did not look 
like that of a sick man. 

" Excellent, Sir William. I eat well and sleep 
well, and can do a day with the hounds or 
on the moors as easily as most fellows. I 
am pretty hard. I won the medal for gym- 
nastics at Oxford, and had quite a reputation 
for pulling myself up poles and ropes in 
quick time; they used to call me 'Climber 
Drake ' at school. It is only that kind of 

"Quite so—quite so. Well, let me pass 
my tape-measure over you and put you 
through your cross-examination." 

A quarter of an hour of steady, quiet 
question and answer, of close inspection of 
eye and head, of cautious tests with optical 
mirror and sphygmograph and other delicate 
instruments. In the end the great man pro- 
nounced sentence. 

" There is no occasion for you to alarm 
yourself, Mr. Drake. I find no sign of brain 
disorder, still less of specific mental disease. 
But " He paused. 

" Yes ? " said Drake, rather breathlessly. 
" There is something, then ? " 

" Oh, nothing, as I have said, to cause 
immediate anxiety. There is just this : a 
somewhat ill - regulated circulation of the 
nervous fluid, which, as we know now, has 
its periodical course through the system like 
the blood itself. There is a tendency for 
this to become congested, so to speak, at the 
base of the brain. That may account for 
your headaches, which clearly are not due to 
any organic or functional derangement; heart, 
liver, lungs are all splendidly sound." 

44 Could something of that kind have 
been the cause of my father's and my uncle's 
disasters ? " 

44 It may have been; I cannot, of course, 
say it was not. But you must not let the 
thought weigh upon you. I repeat, you are 
a very healthy young man, with only a certain 
tendency which may not, and should not, 

44 But the tendency is there ; it may, I sup- 
pose, take a dangerous form under certain 
conditions. Can you tell me what these 

44 You should avoid excitement and excess 
of every description. Alcohol " — the young 
man shook his head — 4< ah, that is good ; 
well, then, excess of — other kinds. You 
should adopt, I think, a rather quiet mode 
of life ; a little hunting and shooting if you 
please, but not too much of it. Moderation 
in all things ; and, as I say, keep clear so far 
as you can of violent excitement." 

44 That, I suppose, Sir William, is the main 
thing. What would happen if I did excite 
myself? " 

44 Very likely nothing at all would happen. 
But there is the possibility — I don't know 
that it is more— of a cerebral clot, as I may 
call it, and in that case — — " 

44 1 should go mad ? " 

44 We need hardly contemplate that ; but 
there might be serious mental trouble of some 

44 Thank you, Sir William. I am obliged 
to you for speaking at once so plainly and so 
kindly. Tell me one thing more. If — if I 
had children should 1 transmit this taint to 
them ? " 

444 Taint* is too strong a word, and, as I 
have said, I think we all talk too much of 

here fte^^FSli!tafi 



" Still, the liability, or the tendency, as you 
put it, which seems to be innate in me, might 
also exhibit itself in my children. You would 
hardly say I ought to get married ?" 

" Ah, there you put a question for the 
moralist and the sociologist rather than the 
physician. It is a point on which I cannot 
possibly advise. A man must decide it for 
himself, and there are many things to be taken 
into consideration besides those that come 
under the doctor's eye. If I were you " 

Sir William broke off and glanced at the 
young man's well-cut features, and let his own 
keen grey eyes rest for a moment on the wide 
brown ones, with their slightly uncertain light. 
He said no more, and the patient, with 
another word of thanks, took his departure. 


A man sometimes receives his death sen- 
tence with very little emotion. The prisoner, 
you will read in the newspapers, on being 
conducted back to the condemned cells, 
partook heartily of a beefsteak. Wallace 
Drake w f alked calmly down Harley Street, 
strolled across the Park, entered his rooms, lit 
a cigarette, and sat down to think. There was 
no occasion, he felt, to get himself into the 
tragic mood. It was disagreeable, no doubt, 
to have suspended over one this awkward 
" tendency " to — well, to go the way of the 
father, over whose closing years he still, 
shuddered ; but then, on the other hand, there 
was a good chance that nothing might come 
of it. He must live a quiet life. There 
were plenty of unexciting pursuits for a 
man of cultivated tastes. Hunting might 
have to be given up, but there was no 
reason why he should not stick to the fencing- 
school and the tennis-court for some years 
longer. Then there were his clubs, the 
theatres, concerts, the select little dinner- 
parties he enjoyed. There would be quite 
as many doors as he cared to enter ready 
to open for one who was rich, well-born, 
cultivated, and a bachelor. 

A bachelor ! Wallace Drake's hand shook 
a little as he lighted another cigarette at this 
point. Of course, he must not marry : that 
was clear. A man with his " tendency " 
could not ask a woman to link. her fate with 
his. Did it matter very much ? He could 
scarcely regard himself as a marrying man, 
quite apart from that verdict in Harley 
Street. Still, there was Mary Milton ; he 
had got into the way of seeing a good deal 
of Mary lately, and he was quite aware that 
Mary liked to see him. There had been a 
vague idea in his mind that some day he 

might ask Mary to be his wife. But had he 
really meant it ? He was very fond of her ; 
but matrimony would undoubtedly interfere 
with that leisurely self-culture which he had 
felt to be his true vocation, even before he 
had been urgently warned to avoid excite- 
ment. And, then, Mary, with all her charm, 
was not the woman who would help one to 
shut out the noises of a jarring world : Mary, 
with her sensitive conscience and her reli- 
gious mysticism, who had chosen to give up 
all the associations of her own class to live 
in a back street in Westminster and teach the 
children of the poor at a great Catholic 
school. He sometimes had the feeling that 
Mary could never quite come down to his 
plane of comfortable egotism, even though he 
made it an egoisme d deux, that she dwelt on 
luminous heights above his reach. Would they 
have suited one another — he, the hedonist, 
and she, the saint and mystic? 

At any rate, the question was no longer worth 
considering; he could not marry her now. 
But it was a little awkward. Mary might be a 
saint, but she was also a human being, essen- 
tially feminine. He had given her to under- 
stand that he cared for her, and he could not 
well break off the pleasant intimacy into 
which they had drifted without some sort ol 
explanation. Perhaps it would be as well to 
explain at once. 

" I will call on her this afternoon," said 
Wallace Drake ; u I think she rather expects 
me to come to tea to-day." 


She lived in one of the great blocks of flats 
that lie anchored off the eddying inlets of 
shabbiness and squalor between Victoria 
Street and the river. To Drake, coming in 
from the grey dullness of the Westminster 
streets, the little sitting room gave more than 
its customary impression of cheerful serenity. 
The gloom of London was shut out behind 
the close-drawn curtains ; the small, square, 
lamp lit space within was a temple of ordered 
femininity, alive with the breathing calm of 
Mary's own delicate personality. Mary her- 
self sat sewing at the small round table on 
which stood the electric lamp, and the red 
shade warmed the light gold of her hair to a 
rich auburn and her pale cheeks to the shy 
pink of an opening rose. The faint flush 
deepened for a moment as she looked up and 
held out her hand to Wallace with a smile. 

" I thought perhaps you might come," she 
said. " You do not forget my half-holidays. 
I love my work, but it is nice to get away 

rromu rnveRSfT^cpp-Mi PHhbs-. ft ave y° u been 



doing with yourself this week ? Tell me 
something about the great world." 

Wallace told her, as was his custom, of his 
visits and hrs dinnerparties, of the Oxford 
and Cambridge sports, of new pieces at the 
theatres. But he talked absently and with 
an effort, and Mary glanced up once or twice 
frum her needle. She was oue of those quiet 
women who can make their meaning felt 
without speech, and pierce through the delu- 
sive veil of words from others. Presently 
she allowed her busy hands to rest in her 
lap, and her clear grey eyes questioned 
Wallace in silence, He too fell silent for a 
few moments, and then he answered her as 
if she had spoken, 

"I am afraid I am dull this afternoon, 
and I do not interest you with my gossip. 
It does not interest me either. The fact is, 
Mary, I came to — to tell you something else." 

u Yes ? " said Mary ; and again the light 
flush grew on the smooth cheeks, and the 
rare smile curved the virginal lips to a 
tremulous sweet- 
ness. Wallace 
noticed the 
blush and the 

smile, and they did not add to his self- 
possession. He went on awkwardly, seeking 
the right words to convey his meaning and 
choosing the wrong ones. 

"Something," he added, hesitating, "some- 
thing that concerns me very nearly, and that, 
perhaps, I think, may interest you." 

The hesitation, the embarrassment, were 
delicious to Mary- What woman, saint or 
sinner, does not enjoy that moment of 
conscious power when her lover, disarmed 
and helpless, is at her feet, too anxious to 
surrender even to stipulate for the honours of 
war ? He was surely about to ask her to marry 
him ; and she — wise and careful maiden that 
she was, who thought things out beforehand 
and did not like to be taken unawares — she 
was not doubtful what her answer would be. 

" My whole future is involved," continued 

"Yes?" said Mary again, softly and shyly. 
He was certainly rather slow in coming to 
the point and needed a little encouragement, 
poor, nervous fellow. No woman can help 
pitying a man who is obviously suffering from 
too much love for herself. Mary's white 
hand stole from her lap and was laid on the 
table, under the red lamp. Half mechanically 
Wallace closed his own 
hand upon it. 

"Have you ever 
thought about mar- 
riage ? " went on this 
maladroit person. 



Qjiginal from 



The crisis must be pretty near now, 
thought Mary ; and her heart knocked so 
loudly against her bodice that her disengaged 
hand went up to her bosom to stay its 
beating. Wallace caught the gesture and it 
gave him a kind of desperation. " I have 
been thinking about it," he said, "but I 
shall never marry." 

" Never marry ! " The shock was too 
sudden for Mary not to show that she felt it. 
She drew her hand quickly from under 
Wallace's palm, and stared at him with 
parted lips and cheeks grown suddenly 

" Mary," said Wallace, " I — I know you 
didn't expect — I mean you thought that 
I " 

But Miss Milton had recovered herself, and 
sat stiff and cold and dignified. "I don't 
think we have been discussing any thoughts 
or expectations of mine, have we, Mr. Drake ? 
You were going to oblige me with some 
information about yourself, and perhaps you 
would not mind confining yourself to that 

" Mary," said poor Wallace, " I saw a 
great physician to-day, and he told me I had 
a tendency to — to go the same way as my 
father and uncle." 

" I am very sorry," answered Mary. But 
there was no sympathy in her tone. She 
was in the egotistic obsession of young 
people when they are in love for the first 
time, and she was too absorbed to consider 
how this news affected Wallace ; she was 
quivering, under her armour, to learn how it 
would affect herself. 

" He said it was a tendency that might 
develop into insanity under excitement." 

"Then, of course," said Mary, icily, "you 
will take care not to excite yourself." 

The tone pricked Wallace, and he tried to 
work himself up to set forth his case. . 

" It is cursed hard luck — an infernal trick 
that your God or the Fates, or whatever 
Power we are ruled by, has played upon me. 
But that is how the thing stands. Here am 
1 with this sword suspended over me, and 
told that it might drop on me at any moment 
if I — if I — excite myself." 

The repetition of the phrase chilled Mary 
and drove back the wave of pity that might 
have surged into her heart. It was some- 
thing more akin to anger and contempt that 
she felt as she glanced at this good-looking, 
well-dressed, comfortable young gentleman, 
too cautious to commit himself to the dis- 
turbing emotion of love. If he had really 
cared, she thought, he might have taken the 

risk — she would have been willing to take it 
with all that it involved for herself. A woman 
who has been ready to lower her colours 
and then found her surrender waved aside, 
no matter for what cause, is scarcely in the 
mood to reason fairly. 

" I am sure your friends must congratulate 
you on your prudence," she said. " I gather 
that you have resolved to devote your life to 
taking care of your health and avoiding any- 
thing — like marriage, for instance — that might 
interfere with this occupation. That is so 
sensible of you, and it is extremely fortunate, 
is it not, that there is nothing to prevent you 
from carrying out your intentions ? " 

Wallace felt the contempt in her voice. 
" What else can I do ? " he asked, feebly. 

" Oh, nothing, I suppose," replied Miss 
Milton. " I have said I think you are behav- 
ing with the utmost prudence. You have to 
take care of yourself, and it would never do 
for you to complicate matters by trying to 
take care of somebody else as well, would it?" 

That was really very much what Wallace 
had been thinking, but he did not like to 
hear it from Mary's lips, and he felt sore and 
wounded under the calm cruelty of her glance. 

" You are not very sympathetic," he said ; 
" I think you might understand that a man 
could not well ask a woman to share such 
possibilities as lie before me, if he loved 
her, and thought that perhaps she might 
love him." 

But Mary's proud and hungry young heart 
ignored the hypothetical appeal. If he loved 
her ! Why did he not tell her that he did 
love her? Why deny her the satisfaction of 
knowing that the passion which had been 
growing in her all these months had some 

"Some men would take the risk and 
perhaps find some women who would not 
fear it. But you are quite — prudent, *' and 
again she gave him a glance which said 
" coward " so plainly that Wallace winced 
under it. She was certainly very unjust, he 
thought, and very hard — harder than he had 
expected. He made another attempt. " I'm 
afraid you think I am not acting quite rightly. 
I know you thought — I mean, I believe you 

had an idea " 

But Mary's patience was giving way. His 
selfishness w r as making him unmanly. Was 
he actually trying to force an avowal from 
her at the very moment when he was throw- 
ing her over ? In the effort to preserve her 
self-command she spoke more coldly than 
ever. Ske. : rose_ from her chair and Wallace 



i fi 3 

" Ah, you know I do not think very much 
about it at all ! Why should I ? You will 
do what you consider right, and it is not for 
me to criticise your conduct I have my 
own affairs to attend to, and, by the way, one 
of the Sisters is coming to see me presently, 
so I am afraid I must ask you to go." 

Wallace looked at her as she stood before 
him, tall and slim, with her coronal of golden 
hair, like one of Giotto's saints. And, as he 
looked, it seemed to him again as if Mary 
spoke down to him from inaccessible heights 
above his reach. But he said, quietly : — 

" You think me a coward ? " 

" I hive not said so." 

"But you think it?" 

44 I don't know what I think. Go, please, 
and leave me now." 

44 May I come tomorrow?" 

" No." 

44 On Tuesday, then ? Or when ? " 

But Mary shook her head as she held out 
her hand. " Good bye, Wallace Drake," was 
all she said. And Wallace understood. He 
touched a very chilly hand for a moment, 
and left the room without another word. 

44 It is all over," he said to himself, as he 
got into the street. " I suppose this is the 
last time I have seen Mary Milton alone. 
It had to be done, of course, and it's as well 
it's over. But I wish she hadn't looked 
at me like that." 

He spent the next four weeks endeavour- 
ing to avoid excitement. Dancing, per- 
haps, had better be put on the forbidden 
list, and music, too, except of the severer 
kind — Bach and Beethoven, and even Mozart, 
but not Chopin or Wagner. There was a 
lively Bohemian club to which he belonged, 
where men were apt to grow very cheerful 
over late suppers ; he kept away from it, for 
at that long table in the small hours, amidst 
the cigars and the scent of spirits, one easily 
grew too animated. His other club, the 
serious one with the solid furniture and 
ample quiet rooms, he frequented a good 
deal. He pondered over his idea of turning 
collector, and made a few experimental pur- 
chases of china ; and he spent some time 
at Christie's looking at mezzotints. The 
fencing-school he did not visit, but he played 
a game of billiards after dinner at the club, 
smoked a cigarette or two, and generally 
contrived to be in bed by eleven. He 
intended to cultivate early hours and plenty 
of sleep for the future. 

His peaceful self- absorption was, how- 
ever, much interrupted by thoughts of Mary 

Milton. He told himself that he had done 
with her and she with him, and, as things 
stood, it was by far the best thing for both 
of them that he should make a mental effort 
to forget her beauty and her charm. But 
he found it hard to do that, and harder to 
dismiss the recollection of their final inter- 
view. Mary's glance of scorn — undeserved 
as he felt it to be — had an awkward way of 
flashing itself before him in those many quiet 
moments when he was alone and doing 
nothing in particular; it came to his mind 
too often that this girl thought him a coward 
and a weakling. Of course, love for Mary or 
for any woman was out of the question ; still, 
he felt that he had a right to vindicate himself 
in her eyes, and make her see that his 
attitude admitted of a more valid defence 
than the lame and halting apology he had 
offered in his first confusion. He really must 
see Mary again ; and though he knew it 
was a little undignified, after her curt 
dismissal, he determined to call upon her 
once more. 

He chose her " off" afternoon, the one on 
which, as he was aware, she did not go to the 
schools, and was generally to be found in 
her rooms. 

44 Miss Milton in ?" he said to the porter 
at the door of the mansions. 

44 Miss Miltoa? Don't you know, Mr. 
Drake, that Miss Milton has gone away?" 

44 Gone away ! " echoed Wallace. 

44 Yes, sir ; to her father's place in 
Northamptonshire. She hasn't been well, 
sir, not for some weeks, and then she had a 
bad cold and influenza, and was very poorly 
indeed. The doctor said it looked like 
turning to pneumonia, and on Saturday her 
sister came and took her home. They was 
going to let me know how she was, but 1 
haven't heard nothing yet. Any message I 
can send on, sir?" added the porter, who 
knew the young man pretty well and had 
wondered at the recent cessation of his visits. 

44 No, thank you, Martin," said Wallace. 
44 1 shall be writing to Colonel Milton myself 
to inquire. Good afternoon." 

Mary gone away — ill! They might have 
told him, he thought ; but then, after all, 
nobody but herself knew how intimate they 
had become, and how much he had seen of 
her in the last few months. And she, it 
appeared, had not needed his sympathy or 
interest. Well, what else could he expect? 
Had he not himself rejected her love, when 
she was deliriously ready to yield it for the 
asking? He-\was right, of course; it had 



Nevertheless, as he thought of her lying on 
a sick bed in pain, perhaps in danger, he felt a 
sudden contempt for his own prudence and 
foresight, an impatience with the calculating 
self-consciousness he had been carefully 
fencing round his heart of late. "She thinks 
me a timorous egotist, a selfish shirker," 
he said to himself, bitterly. He would 
like to do something reckless, some act of 
wild self-sacrifice or generous folly, if only to 
show this exasperating young woman that 
she had misjudged him. 

He walked to a telegraph-office in Victoria 
Street to send a message to Mary's father 
expressing regret at her illness and asking 
for news of her condition. Then he thought 
he would go back to his rooms and await the 
reply. But he felt a curious reluctance to 
leave the places associated with Mary, and 
half unconsciously he drifted down again 
past her lodgings towards the Westminster 

A man jostled him roughly as he pushed 
past, and Wallace, awakened from his reverie, 
looked about him. There seemed to be 
some unusual excitement in the streets ; 
more than the normal groups were assembled 
in the black doorways of the grimy little 
shops, and many people were hurrying along. 
Then came the clang of warning gongs and 
the thunder of trampling hoofs ; and a fire- 
engine dashed by with its superb and 
magnificent rush, itself as it seemed a thing 
all compact of life and fire and conquering 
energy. Fire struck from the feet of the 
horses, it danced on the crested helmets of 
the men straining from their seats, it glowed 
in the martial red of the car, and throbbed 
and hissed in the sputtering furnace that 
tossed out sparks and burning cinders as the 
whole machine charged fiercely forward, like 
a field-battery galloping into action. 

44 Where is the fire?" said Wallace Drake 
to a policeman, as the engine swung in a 
reckless curve round a corner and roared out 
of view. 

44 At the Catholic schools, sir — St. 

Ildegonde's," was the reply. i4 1 believe it 

broke out " But Wallace did not stop 

to hear more. 


There was a great crowd outside the 
schools, and the police were busy keeping 
the people back, so as to allow free play for 
the work of the firemen, who were, for the 
moment, badly overtaxed. The London 
County Council Fire Brigade is not at its 
best with a fire in the daytime. At night it 
is mobilized and ready for action with all its 

resources available ; in the day serious cases are 
less common, and the emergency is grasped 
more slowly. There had been some delay in 
bringing the engines to St. Ildegonde s. It 
was only a matter of minutes ; but that had 
been long enough to enable the flames to 
get well hold of the lower floors, where 
the conflagration had broken out suddenly 
through the overheating of a furnace-flue. 
The dry timbers of the building burnt like 
matchwood, and before all the six hundred 
children could be got out of the upper rooms 
the staircases were blazing. Access by the 
stairs being cut off, the Sisters had brought 
their charges to the windows of the second 
and third floor rooms, from w r hich the fire- 
men were sending them down by the escapes. 
There was no time to spare ; for though more 
engines dashed up every minute, unlimbered 
in haste, and poured streams of water upon 
the burning fabric, the fire gained ground 
and mounted steadily higher. But the work 
of rescue went on swiftly and successfully, 
though in some cases with the narrowest 
possible margin ; for the rescuers were 
making a desperate race with the smoke and 
fames, that invaded one floor after another, 
and sometimes belched from a window a few 
moments after it had been cleared of its 

At length all the rooms were emptied of 
their occupants except one. In the bewilder- 
ment of panic a dozen little girls had found 
their way into an empty store-room on the 
fifth storey — the topmost floor of all — and 
appeared shrieking at a window, a dizsy 
height above the heads of the rescuing 
parties. The deadly light was gleaming 
crimson through the openings below them ; 
behind them the staircase was a shaft of 
flame, and sparks were beginning to crackle 
through the rodf above their heads. The 
firemen made frantic efforts to reach 
them, but in vain ; the escapes were too 
short by many feet, and though the great 
extension ladders, sent away the night before 
to an asylum fire in a distant suburb, 
were hurrying through the streets as fast as 
horses could drag them, it was gravely seen 
by those in charge that they might arrive too 
late. Firemen and constables endeavoured 
to force their way up the burning staircase, 
and were brought back by their comrades 
scorched and unconscious. One man tried 
to climb a metal water-pipe that crossed the 
bare brick facade of the building ; he lost his 
hold, and crashed upon the pavement with a 
broken leg and arm. As a last resource, the 
firemen had brought two ladders beneath the 




window, and holding a tarpaulin from one to 
the other they called to the children to jump 
into tt ; but the little things huddled together 
in terror, and seemed unable to respond to 
the appeal. 

'Hie crowd rocked with excitement; women 
wept and men shouted incoherent exhorta- 
tions, Wallace Drake found himself near a 
knot of the St. Ildegonde Sisters gazing 
helplessly at the doomed little group in their 
inaccessible refuge. One of the girls, with 
her hands before her eyes, cried aloud in her 
anguish: "The poor darlings ! Save them! 
Save them ! Will no one save them?*' 

Drake looked down on her as she stood 
beside him ; her 
hair was a little 
like Mary's— that 
was his first 
thought. And 
then another 
thought shot into 
his mind, swiftly 
and suddenly, like 
the reaction of 
some powerful 
physical agent — 
an intuition that 
sent a quiver 
through his frame 
and a light into 
his eye. He knew 
what he had to 
do. His hand 
rested on the girl's 
bowed head for 
one instant; the 
next his tall figure, 
with the science 
learnt in many a 
Rugby serum, was 
winding its way 
through the sway- 
ing throng. The 
police, themselves 
absorbed in that 
fatal window, 
allowed him to 
slip through their 
cordon, and he 
ran to the foot of 
a ladder. 

l * Keep back, 
sir!" said a fire- 
man. Wallace 
pushed past his 
outstretched arm. 
"Keep back, 

said the silver - hehneted superintendent; 
" you have no right to be here." 

Wallace had some acquaintance with 
the officer. "Captain Morgan/' he said, 
"you know me — Wallace Drake. I was 
champion gymnast at Oxford ; I believe I 
can climb to those children. For God's 
sake let me try ! " 

The captain measured the young man for 
the fraction of a second with his under- 
standing sailor's eye and shrugged his square 
shoulders. " It means another broken leg, I 
expect j but you may try if you like. Let this 
gentleman pass you," he called to the men 
at work on the higher rungs of the ladder. 

ma/i . 

t » 

Stemly 'ft RELI^VM-I C^ji GUM* TQ THO>>P- CHILUKlbfiri^KldJl^'QilQft LKT MB TRY 1 

u¥ V_i KJXJ x I ^ 1 1 hi \\i cdci tv n c a jli r u i^ a ki 


1 66 


Wallace had made his plans as he came 
along. The ladder was leaning against the 
wall close by the great rain-water pipe which 
led down from the roof gutters. It was 
fastened to the wall by metal collars, which 
caused it to stand an inch or two clear of the 
brickwork, and these collars and sockets them- 
selves gave some foothold every few feet. 
The pipe passed through a cornice which ran 
along the front of the building just above the 
window at which the children stood. To climb 
the iron column and walk along the narrow 
ledge to this window was very difficult, but 
not absolutely impossible. So had thought 
the fireman who was now being borne 
groaning to the hospital ; but he had been 
encumbered by his heavy uniform and the 
huge leather boots reaching nearly to his 
thighs. Drake, in his thin walking shoes 
and light serge clothes, had a better chance ; 
a tube, he said to himself, was no worse to 
climb than a pole, and he had climbed poles 
often enough. But as he stepped from 
the ladder and began to drag himself up 
he found that the task tried his powers 
to the utmost. The space between the pipe 
and the wall was just sufficient to allow him 
to get a firm hold with his fingers ; but he 
could not pass his legs round, and was only 
able to cling with the inside of his knees, so 
as to prevent himself from slipping back as 
he hauled himself upwards by his hands. 
Only a trained gymnast, accustomed to 
support the whole weight of his body on his 
bent arms, could have accomplished the feat ; 
and Wallace blessed his years of practice 
on the parallel bars and the hanging rope as 
he found himself slowly rising past the third 
and fourth floor windows. 

Under the tense gaze of the spectators 
he drew level with the cornice, and when he 
reached it there was a cheer, instantly choked 
into a breathless silence. He thought of 
some knife-like snow-ledges in the Alps, 
known to him in his mountaineering days, as 
he moved along sideways, holding by the 
leaden channel at the edge of the roof. 
After all, it was wider than many paths he 
had trodden safely with a serac above and 
depths illimitable below. There was no 
reason why he should slip, in spite of the 
acrid smoke that welled up all round him 
and the flying sparks that scorched his face 
and hands; and he did not slip. In a few 
seconds, which seamed hours to some of 
those watching him, he was over the window, 
and the children drew back in amazement as 
he lowered himself from the cornice and 
swung in. 

by LiOOglC 

He gave a hasty glance about him, and 
saw that there was indeed no time to lose. 
The room was still free from smoke and fire, 
but he could hear the flames hissing up the 
staircase outside ; the stout teak door was 
already beginning to crackle ominously, and 
he knew that the rafters of the roof were 
burning over their heads. The children 
must be got out of the window without a 
moment's delay. He regretted now r that he 
had not taken a rope up with him — a stupid 
omission, which surely one of Morgan's men 
might have had the sense to supply when 
they saw what he intended to do. He looked 
round the room, remembering how often he 
had read of people b<?ing lowered from burn- 
ing houses by improvised ropes of bed-sheets 
and curtains. But there were no such things 
in this bare garret, and no time for any such 
expedients if the materials had been avail- 

The firemen, at their ladders fifteen feet 
below him, were holding out their spread 
of tarpaulin. He leaned over and called 
to them to be ready. Then he took a 
little maiden in his arms and held her far 
out from the wide stone sill. She screamed 
and clung convulsively to him ; but he 
spoke soothing words and gradually got her 
to understand his purpose, showing her the 
bearded rescuers waiting to catch her. So 
at length she released his wrists and permitted 
herself to be slung into space, and was caught 
in the black cradle. After that the children 
were eager to go. One after another they 
mounted the open casement, and allowed 
Wallace to lift them out and drop them down. 
The hazardous operation was completed * 
without misadventure. All the children were 
safely landed in the tarpaulin and brought 
carefully down the ladders ; though not 
before the panels of the door behind Wallace 
had cracked, and a smother of brown smoke 
volleyed past him and out from the open 

He had been quite calm and self-possessed 
through it all. He talked pleasantly and 
quietly to the frightened children ; he even. 
joked with the firemen as he discharged his 
living missiles upon them. " Well fielded \ r? 
he cried, as the last child was neatly taken. 
The last child had said, " Kiss me, teacher," 
and would not relax her hold till this ceremony 
had been performed. So Wallace had raised 
her again, and kissed her, and then let her go, 
while the crowd yelled itself hoarse with 
frantic applause, and Wallace looked down 
with a smile. 

The smile was still on his lips as he drew 





STON£ S3LU 4 ' 

himself up and stretched his arms, and for the 
first time felt how tired they were from the 
long strain on the muscles. 

" Your turn now, sir," the friendly fireman 
called from below; "the extension ladder 
must be here in a Tew minutes ; but I 
wouldn't risk waiting- Lower yourself down, 

Digitized by W 

sir, and we will catch 
you all right,'' 

But Wallace made 
no reply. Some- 
thing seemed to snap 
within his head; and 
tli en the shouting 
crowd, the brass 
helmets, the paint 
and gleaming metal 
of the engines, faded 
into a jumble of 
meaningless sound 
and noise, He had 
forgotten the lire, the 
firemen, the children 
he had saved, his own 
imminent danger. 
Where was he ? 
What was that red 
glare all about him, 
that yellow glow over 
liis head ? And sud- 
denly there came 
before his whirling 
brain that old fantasy 
of Mary Milton as 
he used to picture 
her, standing far 
a hove him in a haze 
of luminous ether. 
Of course, she was 
always above him, 
out of his reach, 
with a nimbus of 
light around her. 
Hut he knew where 
she was now. She 
must be up there in 
that great incan- 
descent cloud ; yes, 
surely he could see 
her in the golden 
gleam, beckoning to 
him, calling him. 
She was above his 
reach, as ever, but 
he must go to her — 
climb to her, 

He laughed softly 

and whispered to 

himself. " If 1 can 

I can climb ; and I shall 

till I come to you, 


do nothing else 
climb — climb --climb 
my sweet, scornful, saintly lady ! ,f 
he turned and placed his foot on the case- 
ment of the now burning room, to the horror 
and amazement of the beholders. "Come 
down, sTLli'j ..called, n -the firemen. "Come 


1 68 


down! come down!' 1 shrieked the people. 
But Wallace did not hear the voices; he 
did not feel the smoke shooting into his 
face, or the searing jets of flame. In 
the intense concentration of insanity his 
senses were dead to all impressions but 
that vision of a woman far above him bathed 
in shimmering light, " Follow the gleam," he 
murmured. " Yes, I must follow the gleam/' 
He stood on the window-ledge, reached out 
for the overhanging cornice, got his hands 
upon it, and then swung himself up, a thing 
he could never have done, with all his 
strength and agility, but for that strange 
power which abnormal mental states give to 
the limbs and muscles. 



YOU*" M 

3 y Google 

From the cornice he climbed to the 
rain-water channel, and then prepared to 
mount the blazing slope of roof. 

t£ Mary ! " he cried. " Wait for me ; 1 am 
coming to you." 

They saw him for a moment, with 
outstretched hands, erect, with the smoke 
and sparks blowing all round and over 
him. Then a great tongue of fire spouted 
high into the air; and with a crash that 
drowned all other noises the roof fell in 
and VVallace Drake was gone. 

The newspapers the next morning were 
full of his heroism, and full also of wonder- 
ing comment on the unaccountable impulse 
which had led him to 
destruction, when the 
way of safely lay clear 
before him + 

'* Unaccountable 3 " Sir William in 
Harley Street, as he 
turned over his Times. 
u Humph ! I doiVt 
know. Perhaps I could 
account for it ; per- 
haps I couldn't. There 
are so few things one 
can really account for 
in this queer world* 
The poor, brave lad I 
Well, maybe it was 
the best way, after all. 
But was there a 
y oung W o ni a n, I 
wonder, and what did 
she say to him ?" 

Only Mary Milton 
could have answered 
the question ; and 
Mary Milton could 
not tell him, or any- 
one. For, some 
thirty hours earlier, 
her pneumonia had 
taken a rapidly fatal 
turn, and she had 
passed away at a 
quarter to six on the 
previous afternoon ; 
which was, ^s it 
happened, just about 
the time that Wallace 
Drake met his 
death seeking for her 
amid the smoke and 
flames. Perhaps he 
found her, 


Crime aad the Crystal 

Has Crystal -Gazing a Scientific Basis? 
By F. A. H. EYLES. 

BELIE VE,"says Mr. Andrew 
Lang, in his introduction to 
Mr Northcote W. Thomas's 
" History and Practice of 
Crystal-Gazing," "that some 
crystal-gazers are, somehow, 
enabled to 'see' things which are actual, but 
of which — crystal-gazing apart — they have, 
and can have, no knowledge. I have no 
conjecture as to 'how it is done/ but, if it 
is done, it upsets some extant popular 

All lands and all ages have their stories of 
crystal gazing, though the majority seem to 
be concerned more with personal visions of 
the past, the present, and the future than 
with the detection of crime, with which it is 
chiefly the purpose of this article to deal. 

Of the usual class of crystal vision there 
are few more interesting examples than that 
recorded by the late Mr. F. W. H. Myers in 
his series of papers on the subliminal' con- 
sciousness. In this case Sir Joseph Barnby 
was the chief witness. He was attending a 
wedding at Longford Castle, having left Lady 
Barnby at Eastbourne. Whilst he was there 

a lady known as Miss A looked in her 

crystal and desciibed what she saw — a bed- 
room, and a lady in the room drying her 
hands on a towel. *~ -• 

The lady who was seen in this vision was 
tall, dark, slightly foreign in appearance, with 
rather "an air" about her. 

"This described with sffch' astonishing 
accuracy my wife and the room she was then^ 
occupying," Sir Joseph wrote in his account 
of the case, " that I was impelled to ask for 
particulars of the dress she was wearing." 

Looking again into the crystal, Miss A 

saw that the dress was of serge, with a good 
deal of braid on the bodice and" a strip of 
braid down one side of the skirt. 

This description threw Sir Joseph off the 
scent, as his wife expressed regret, before he'^ 
left for Longford, that she had not a serge 
dress with her. His astonishment, therefore, 
was great, on returning to Eastbourne, to find 
her wearing a serge dress exactly answering 
to the description, and to learn that, as a 
surprise, having received it very much earlier 
than she expected from the costumer, she 

had arranged to meet him in it. His wife 
also recalled the incident that was seen in 
the crystal, of washing her hands. " Thinking 
I was late for meeting the train," she said, 
" I opened the door to call the maid to tell 
me the time as I washed my hands, standing 
at the washstand in a line with the door. I 
do not suppose I have ever done such a thing 
at an hotel before." 

Sixteen months later Sir Joseph and I^idy 
Barnby 'were at Prince's Hall, Piccadilly, 

when Lady Radnor and Miss A entered 

the room. During the greetings that followed 

Miss A called Sir Joseph's attention to 

a standing figure, saying, "You will remember 
my seeing a lady in her bedroom while I was 
looking in my crystal? That is the lady I 
saw." Sir Joseph adds that this lady was 

his wife, and that Miss A had never 

seen her before. 

There are many similar cases equally well 
attested. An experience nearly related to the 
purpose of the present article is given in 
Lane's " Modern Egyptians." A few days 
after the author's first arrival in Egypt his 
curiosity was excited on the subject of magic 
by a circumstance related to him by Mr. 
Salt, at that time our Consul-General in that 

. Having had reason to believe. that one of 
his servants was a thief, Mr. Salt sent for a 
celebrated Maghrabee magician, with the 
view, if possible, of making the thief confess 
his crime. The magician, calling a boy and 
* pouring into the palm of his right hand a 
little ink,' said he would cause to appear the 
exact image of the person who had committed 
the theft. 

The boy was commanded to look stead- 
fastly into the ink. The magician then 
burned some incense and several bits of 
pfcper inscribed with charms, and called for 
various objects to appear in the ink. The 
Vboy declared that he saw all these objects, 
aftd) last of all, the image of the guilty person, 
whose stature, countenance, and dress he 
minutely- described. The description that 
was given was that of one of the labourers, 
who was thereupon arrested on suspicion. 
This man confessed that he was the thief. 

Interesting as are these cases and others 


f 7° 


recorded by Mr. Myers, Miss Goodrich- 
Freer, Mr. Thomas, Mr, Andrew I^ang, and 
authorities of equally high repute, they are 
less remarkable than the experiences of 
Mr, Von Bourg, whose name is perhaps best 
known to the public in connection with the 
famous I -"ox we II case. 

Early in December of the year igoOj Mr. 
Fox well j a London stockbroker, left his home 
at Thames Dition to go to his business in 
the City 3 and never returned. The aid of 
the police was sought ; they made inquiries, 
and came to the conclusion that he had gone 
to America, As there was no reason what 
ever why he should have left the country in 

a manner so mysterious this conclusion failed 
to satisfy his friends. For weeks the mystery 
remained unsolved. 

One afternoon late in the month of Mr. 
FoxwelVs disappearance a lady called on 
Mr, Von Bourg. " She was quite a stranger/" 
he tells me, as I sit in his stance room dis- 
cussing his experiences, " nnd she was 
anxious that I should look into the crystal 
for her, I remember the first thing I saw 
was the body of a man floating in the 

11 Do tell me more about it," his visitor 

The medium continued to gaze into the 

How Mr. Von Bourg saw in the crystal the body of Mr. Fox well, the missing slock broker, floating down the 
Thames, A subsequent vision showed the exact spot where the body was afterwards found. 




crystal, and described minutely the man's 

41 Look ! " he said ; and his visitor looked 
and saw the vision, too. 

"That is my husband," she exclaimed. 
The lady, now disclosing her identity, was 
Mrs. Foxwell/the missing stockbroker's wife. 
Rapidly now other pictures formed in the 
crystal — the house in which the Foxwells 
lived ; a scene at Thames Ditton ; the river 
and its grassy banks on each side ; and the 
spot where the body was to be found. 

" That spot," said the medium, speaking 
then under clairvoyant impression, " is a 
mile from your house. But not yet will 
the body be found. It will be recovered on 
January 31st, about five o'clock in the evening, 
and I 'see* another picture, which looks as 
though the man was struck on the head." 

For a month the investigation was con- 
ducted on the lines indicated in the crystal. 
Various seances were held subsequently, at 
which Dr. Abraham Wallace, of Harley 
Street, and Mrs. Effie Bathe, a lady well 
known for her work in psychical research, 
were present. "But it all came," says Mr. 
Von Bourg, "to practically the same thing. 
The whole solution of the mystery was made 
perfectly plain at the first sitting, to which 
Mrs. Foxwell came to me an entire stranger. 
: " And everything," he adds, " came about 
as I saw in the crystal and said it would. 
The body was found at the spot that was 
indicated about half-past four on January 31st ; 
the distance from the house was measured 
and found to be exactly a mile ; and when 
the body was examined by the doctor there 
' was a bruise on the head, just as I had seen. 

"Indeed," he added, "from the first 
moment that I looked into the crystal for 
Mrs. Foxwell the mystery was solved." 

The fame of the Foxwell case soon spread. 
There were many inquiries for the services of 
the medium in other directions. One, which 
was made through Dr. Abraham Wallace, 
took him to an interesting case at Brighton. 

A lady, well known as a hostess, wrote to 
the doctor, Mr. Von Bourg tells me, begging 
him to take him down with the view of 
assisting her in a matter that was causing 
great distress. 

"The doctor and I went down," he relates, 
" and we had a sitting." Through the visions 
that came in the crystal he ascertained the 
cause of the lady's distress, and was able at 
the same time to offer an assurance that all 
would be well. 

In the crystal came the vision of jewels, 
and wjth it the medium received the im- 

pression of loss, but not of complete loss, for 
with them, to quote his words again, was 
"the atmosphere of the house." The picture 
in the crystal indicated the carpet as a 
direction of search. 

How far was the medium correct? It was 
a fact that the loss of jewels was the cause of 
distress, for a guest in the house had left on 
her dressing table, on going down to dinner, 
a pair of magnificent diamond ear-rings, 
the stones being of exceptional size. Would 
their recovery also become a fact ? 

" The next morning," says Mr. Von Bourg, 
carrying the story to its conclusion, " we had 
all the servants together and told them that 
no doubt if they looked under the carpets 
they would find the missing ear-rings." Both, 
however, were not found immediately. But 
as the carpet was turned back there one of 
the splendid diamonds lay, but, ominously 
enough, without its setting. 

" 1 suggested a certain course," the medium 
adds, " which, if followed, I was sure would 
result in the recovery of the other. This 
course, however, the lady did not care at the 
time to take. Months afterwards, however, 
the remaining diamond was found, and in the 
house, as I said it would be." 

Swifter and even surer in action and more 
dramatic in conclusion was a case to which 
the medium was called some time lfterwards 
into the country. A lady telegraphed to him 
in urgent terms one morning, begging him to 
be sure to take a train from town by which he 
could arrive at her house before dinner. 

" I went down and took my crystals," he 
says, "and as soon as I arrived my hostess 
asked me to see what vision I could get. I 
looked into the crystal and saw a beautiful 
bracelet studded with emeralds and diamonds. 
Such a bracelet, my hostess tcld me, she had 

" i Can it be found ?' she asked. I assured 
her that it could, and that it was in the 
house, for I saw in the crystal a long and 
narrow room, and in this room a trunk, and 
in the trunk a little parcel which, I was 
impressed, contained the missing bracelet. I 
also described a person whom I saw in the 
crystal. The description was that of a guest 
who, I was then told, was staying in the house." 

What could be done without an open 
accusation, a charge that could not, on 
crystal evidence alone, be held to be legally 
proved, and might be, and probably would 
be, indignantly denied ? There was only one 
thing, if the hostess was satisfied the sus- 
picion had foundation, that could be done, 
and that .was a daring thing to do, 

hat was a daring mine to d( 




When the friend came downstairs for 
dinner the hostess found an excuse for 
leaving her for a few minutes and went to 
her room — the " long and narrow room F? tint 
was seen in the crystal. There, in this room, 
the medium, accompanying the hostess, saw 
also the trunk he had described. 

"Open it ! n he commanded. "There you 
will find your bracelet locked up." 

The trunk was opened and in it was found 
the little [jarcel that was seen in the vision, 
and that parcel contained the emerald and 
diamond bracelet. Having moved it to a 
place of safety, the hostess joined her friend 
at dinner, 

Nothing was said that evening, The next 
morning the friend herself made an excuse 
for leaving hurriedly. She had looked into 
her trunk and found that that which had 
been there was gone. After she left her 
hostess wrote to her, saying as kindly as she 
could, but (irmly, that she could never receive 
her any more. 

M And she was a lady in society," Mr. Von 
Bourg added. 

The story of one more experiment, the 
most vivid and astonishing of all, the vision 
of the Merstham tunnel murder, which was 
seen and described by two relatives of the 

victim, Miss Mary Money, remains to be 
added. * 

On this occasion I myself accompanied the 
medium to the house of the relatives, arid 
was present at the seance, a record of which, 
written by me, appeared the same evening, 
the 30th of September, 1905, in the columns 
of the Pali Mali Gazette. 

The medium took with him the identical 
crystal in which lie had seen, five years before, 
the body of Mr, Foxwell, the missing stock- 
broker: He held it, as he sat in a corner of 
the room in an arm-chair, in both hands, half 
bending over it, and looking into its milky 

After a moment or two I asked him if he 
could see anything, 

"Yes, I can/' he replied; "but before I 
say what it is I want to see if the friends can 
see it, loo." 

There were in the room a young man and 
a young woman, close relatives of Miss 
Money* Neither had ever looked into a 
crystal, nor had they any experience of the 
subject, To the man I said, " Look over 
Mr. Von Bourg T s shoulder and tell me what, 
if anything, you can see." He stepj>ed up to 
the medium and, for a moment, gazed over 
his shoulder into the crystal steadily. 

The Merslham Tunnel Myskry -The relatives o( ihe murdered gii] $c«; fier fate in the crystal. 



Thii picture give* on an enlarged scale an exact impression of the struggle in the M erst ham Tunnel as seen in the 

crystal by ihree persons at ihe same time + 

11 1 can see nothing/* he declared. 

41 You must give yourself a little time/ 1 I 
suggested ; 4i pfease look again " 

He looked again. Of a sudden he 
exclaimed, in tones of swift and certain 
conviction, " Yes, I do see something. I 
see a train moving through a tunnel, and in 
one of the carriages a man and a woman." 

I beckoned to the lady, the other relative 
in the room. " You look, too/ 5 I said, "and 
$e* if you can see anything," The hdy bent 


over the medium ? s shoulder. The 
was as clear to her as to the other, 

And all the time the train, they tnld me, 
was moving. Like two persons looking at a 
picture-book and describing each picture as 
they turned its leaves, so these two relatives 
of the murdered girl gave me> without pause 
or hesitation, a vivid narrative of the vision 
they saw — the struggle in the train, the man's 
hand on the woman's shoulder, the carriage 



All this was sufficiently remarkable, for 
scarcely a week had elapsed since the murder, 
and the police were on the false track of 
suicide, and medical evidence had not then 
been given, as it afterwards was given, to 
show that some of the marks of injury on 
Miss Money's body must have b$en caused 
before she left the carriage. 

But this was not the end of the vision. 

Still from the depths of the crystal picture 
after picture rose and faded — pictures, as the 
relatives described them, of the train at last 
emerging from the tunnel ; of a great light 
streaming upon it from a signal-box ; of the 
man, now alone in the carriage, alighting at 
a station; of his riding off on a bicycle; and, 
finally, of his return to the tunnel and peering 
into it with eyes that appeared to be haunted 
by the scene of this terrible crime. 

"What," I asked the medium, " was the 
interpretation to be placed on the vision of 
the bright light streaming upon the train 
from the signal-box ? " 

" The clairvoyant impression I get from 
that," he replied, " is that great light will be 
thrown upon the tragedy by someone con- 
nected with a signal-box." 

At that time no one had heard of the 
signalman at Purley Oaks. Nor was it until 
some weeks afterwards that this man was 
called to give evidence of seeing a man 
and woman struggling in the carriage as the 
train in which the tragedy occurred passed 
his box. The police pooh-poohed this e\i- 
dence, saying it was impossible for a struggle 
at night in a lighted train to be witnessed 
from a signal-box. Professor Churton Collins, 
who, as a criminologist, never had the smallest 
faith in the suicide theory, obtained the 
permission of the railway company to visit 
the Purley Oaks signal-box at night in order 
to test the value of the police criticism. Two 
trains passed the box whilst he was in it, 
travelling between twenty and thirty miles an 
hour, and he had no difficulty, he told me, 
in seeing everything in them, even to dis- 
tinctive colours in the dresses the travellers 
were wearing. 

That there was a struggle, as Miss Money's 
relatives saw it re enacted in Mr. Von Bourg's 
crystal, was confirmed, therefore, by the 
signalman's story and supported by the 
doctor's evidence, and, in so far as it con- 
cerned one aspect of the mystery, it afforded 
an important clue and indicated a motive for 
the murder. 

There are two cases recorded in Mr. 
F. W. H. Myers's papers on the subliminal 
consciousness which form a striking parallel 

to the experiences of Mr. Von Bourg. The 
witnesses in these cases were Colonel Wick ham 
and his wife, Princess di Cristoforo, and the 
medium was one of their Indian servants, a 
half-caste, named Ruth, who was their 
children's nurse, and was known to Mr. 

The experiences occurred when Colonel 
Wickham was stationed with his regiment, 
the Royal Artillery, at Colaba. The Princess, 
interested in the girl's powers, used frequently 
to get her to look into a tumbler of water in 
order that she might learn what her friends 
at a distance were doing. Many things, she 
recounts, which the girl told her, she was 
able to verify. 

One day, the morning Lord Reay was 
expected to arrive at Bombay, and the troops 
were ordered to line the approach to the 
landing-place at the Apollo Bunder, Colonel 
Wickham's orderly, who had been instructed 
to get out his full uniform and have it in 
readiness for him to put on, reported that the 
dress pouch-belt was, missing. 

" Don't talk nonsense," exclaimed the 
Colonel, impatiently ; " you must be as blind 
as a bat." But the man was right; the pouch- 
belt could nowhere be found. In no good 
humour apparently, the Colonel, who had 
been looking in every conceivable place, 
returned to the room in which his wile was 
having breakfast and said, " Now, then, here 
is a brilliant opportunity of testing the verity 
of Ruih's clairvoyance. Get her up here 
and ask her to find my pouch-belt " 

At first the girl begged to be excused, 
declaring that her fellow-servants would never 
forgive her should the thief be discovered 
through her instrumentality. The Princess, 
however, quieted her fears by promising her 
that, should she see the face of the thief in 
the tumbler, she need only reveal the fact to 
her. The girl looked into the tumbler, but 
to no purpose. 

Suddenly an idea struck the Princess. 
Instead of continuing to command her, as 
she had been doing, to look for the thief, she 
told her to "look for the sahib the day he 
last wore the dress pouch-belt." 

The girl looked again. " I see sahib," 
she said, dreamily, after a moment or two. 
" He is dressing ; he puts on his uniform, now 
the pouch-belt. Ah ! he has left the room. 7 " 

" Follow him," the Princess commanded. 

" Sahib is getting on his horse ; he is 
riding away," the girl continued, still gazing 
deeply into the tumbler. 

" Don't leave him a moment," the Princess 




" Ah ! but he goes so fast. I am tired," 
gasped the gtrl, breathlessly. 

"Go on," the Princess said. 

"Sahib is with other sahibs, and there are 
many soldiers and people. It is a grand 
tomasha; some great person is going away. 
They all stand near the water." 

"Then rest," said the Princess, "but don't 
take your eyes off sahib." 

For a brief space the girl was silent. Then 
she went on : " Sahib has gone into a big 
house by the water. He goes into a dress- 
ing room. He changes his clothes. All 
his regimentals are put in his tin case, but 
the pouch-belt is left out. It is hanging on a 
peg in the dressing room of the house by 
the sea." 

" The Yacht Club! " exclaimed the Colonel, 
who had been following the story. " Patilla," 
he said to his orderly, "send someone at 
once to see if the belt has been left there." 

"I wonder," he mused, "if I really left it 
at the Yacht Club after all? The last day 
I wore it was when Lord Ripon left for 

In a short time the messenger returned. 
He ran panting up the stairs, the belt held 
high above his head. He had found it 
as Ruth had seen it — in the house by the 
sea, hanging on a peg in a dressing-room of 
the Yacht Club. 

The Princess, commenting on this satis- 
factory solution of the mystery of the missing 
belt, remarks that Ruth could have had no 
idea where it was left, for she had then been 
with her only a short time, and had entered 
her service long after Lord, Ripon's departure 
from Bombay. 

Soon after this incident the cantonment 
magistrate at Assigurgh, who was a friend of 
Colonel Wickhanvs, called, and was told 
about Ruth and her strange powers. Saying 
he was an utter sceptic and that it would 
require strong proof to convince him, he 
asked to be allowed to test the girl, as he 
himself had lost some valuable property. 

The girl was brought in, a tumbler of water 
was placed before her, and the magistrate, 
through the Princess, questioned her. 

"Go to Assigurgh," he began, "and describe 
my bedroom." 

This the girl did, and correctly too, as he 
at once acknowledged. 

" Now tell me what I have lost." 

" I see a box ; not a large box," the girl 
said, looking into the water. " It is a tin 
box, and contains money and a roll of 

" Right you are ! " exclaimed the astonished 

magistrate. " But tell me where the box is 

" It is in a small room." 

" Tell me what is in it." 

The girl paused a little. "Only papers, 
sahib ; the money is gone," she said. 

" Describe the man who took it." 

" He is not there ; the room is empty." 

" Look for him." 

"He is in sahib's room. He is a little dark 
man, with a pleasant face. His dress is 
white ; he has a scarlet cummerbund, and a 
scarlet and gold turban. On his left hand is 
a scar." 

" My butler, by Jove," cried the magistrate, 
"and the very man I suspected." 

After his return to Assigurgh he wrote to 
say he had found the box as described in the 
servants' quarters, but that no papers remained 
in it ; the box was empty. That was the 
only thing that was not correct in the girl's 
statement. The Princess concluded that she 
must have seen the box in the vision before 
the papers were removed from it. 

"I often found," she writes, "that she did 
not seem to have much control over time, 
as regarded past events, though she would de- 
scribe the actual occurrence rightly enough." 

What, it will be asked, is the scientific ex- 
planation of all these puzzling phenomena of 
crystal vision ? May not a conversation I 
recall with Yoga, another well-known medium 
practising in the West-end, suggest, in some 
cases, an answer that brings not only crystal- 
gazing, but also many phases of clairvoyance, 
prophecy, and prevision, into perfect harmony 
with natural law ? 

" How," I asked, " do you account for 
visions seen, or stated to be seen, in the 
crystal ? " 

" The results obtained by this means and 
others are due, I consider," he answered 
readily, "to thought-transference, not neces- 
sarily from the persrn consulting the crystal- 
gazer, but through him from others. 

" It is possible, I maintain, for the crystal- 
gazer to get information you are not aware of, 
through you, about your friend Brown, and 
that it is all thought-transference, the gazer 
getting it, not from the spirit, as some persons 
may suppose, but from Brown. In other 
words, your subconscious self in the first 
place gets the impression that has to be con- 
veyed to the conscious self, and the vision is 
hallucination. The use of the crystal is its 
aid to concentration and visualization." 

As a striking illustration of this line of 
reasoning, Yoga reminded me of the well- 




attested case of a mother in England whose 
son, then serving in India, was shot through 
the heart. At the moment of the tragedy she 
had, not in a crystal, it is true, but apparently 
before her very eyes, a vision of him standing 
by her bedside. " The explanation," Yoga 
continued, "is this. At the moment of death a 
person whose brain is not injured by disease has 
a special power of concehtration - in one swift 
moment, for example, a person who is drown- 
ing will recall theexperiencesof a lifetime— and 
of whom would a person in the last moments 
of a life cut short by unforeseen tragedy be 
likely to think most ? The person he most 
cared for —in this case his mother. Trans- 
ference of thought does not seem to be 
limited by distance any more than the trans- 
ference of messages by wireless telegraphy. 
It affects, either near at hand or afar off, the 
subconscious self, and that in turn hallu- 
cinates the conscious self. 

" If the spirit of the son had been in the 
room he would probably not have been 
visible to the mother's material eyes. Rather 
is it to be supposed that it was his thought 
that influenced her and produced the halluci- 

"All this," I said, "may account for 
visions of things past or immediately passing ; 
but what of the future that is frequently 
foretold — how do you account for the vision 
of things to come?" 

"On precisely those same lines of thought- 
transference. You may not know, for 
example, that your friend Brown is ill ; you 
are surprised when I tell you that he is or 
that he will be. Yet you find it to be true. 
It is simply the case that Brown's thoughts 
at the time of his illness, or of his feeling 
that he is going to be ill, have reached the 
crystal-gazer through you, and he is able to 
tell you something of which you are not 

"Similarly a clairvoyant may tell a lady 
that there is a man, now in India, who will 
come home next year and marry her. The 
lady may think it wonderful, but, after all, it 
is only the transference of the man's thoughts, 
always supposing he has made up his mind 
what he intends to do in a year's time. 

" In the same way you may get impressions 
about a will, supposing a person has either 
made his will or intends to make it, and to 
leave his property in a certain way. It is all 
thought-transference, in my opinion. My 
theory is that the future is certain to be 

calculated upon. One's thoughts are as much 
about the future as they are of the present. 
They think of the oak who see the acorn ; 
and thus is the future founded on the present, 
taking shape out of it. 

" One more illustration to conclude. The 
Servian massacre was foretold in the crystal 
and by clairvoyance some time in advance of 
the great tragedy itself. The prediction was 
not, after all, so remarkable as it may seem 
if you follow the lines of thought-transference, 
for the tragedy had long been contemplated 
and had long been planned. Many persons 
knew • about it, and the concentration and 
projection of their thoughts produced the 
vision of the massacre." 

This theory is at least interesting, if not 
final. It certainly fits many of the cases 
recorded in these few pages, but not all. In 
the cases that are quoted of the recovery 
of stolen jewels it is just possible, on this 
theory, that the thought of the persons who 
took them, and, of course, knew precisely 
what had been done with them, were trans- 
ferred to the medium through their owner, 
who sat with him. 

The incidents of the murder in the train 
were also in the thoughts, at the time of the 
sitting, of at least one person then living, if 
the murder theory is the true one. Even 
Mrs. Foxwell may have thought, if not con- 
sciously, yet in her subconscious self, that 
her husband was drowned. But in the 
Foxwell case thought-transference will hardly 
fit the prevision of the actual hour and day, 
six weeks in advance, of the recovery of the 
body. Someone may say, " It was a happy 

The universal experience of those who 
have investigated the occult is that there are 
far too many of these " happy shots," as they 
are apt to be called, to be all merely coinci- 
dence. Nor will thought-transference account 

for Miss A seeing Lady Barnby drying 

her hands and wearing her serge dress a day 
or two in advance of the actual occurrence 
of these incidents. Thought - transference 
is a very good solution so far as it goes, 
but it does not meet every case. No doubt, 
if scientists were sufficiently sympathetic to 
be persuaded to examine the phenomena 
patiently and carefully, an explanation would 
be found. As it is, the detection of crime 
in the crystal, as well as much of the whole 
art of crystal gazing, must retain within it 
something of mystery. 

by Google 

Original from 



HY don't / have these golden 
opportunities ? " I thought, 
sadly, as I gazed into the 
wet and mournful square, 
where the trees drip-dripped 
over the iron railings, " and 
you could almost hear the water squishing in 
people's boots. 

Td been reading " Evangeline Lily ; or, 
Like a Little Dove," and I was full of beau- 
tiful thoughts suitable to the season. If I 
could only make peace in the beautiful way 
Evangeline Lily did ! But, there, whom could 
I do it with ? Td tried it with cook and Ada, 
but they had quite misunderstood me, and 
cook had actually gone upstairs and given 
notice, and told mother exactly what she 
thought of the way she and father had 
brought me up, and if she was to have the 
children come messing about the kitchen all 
hours and upsetting everybody she'd leave 
in a month. 

She's a very good cook, and father says she 
has the lightest hand at pastry he ever knew, 
so mother just smiled in her pretty way and 
said: "Oh, cook, you're too good to the 
children ! You mustn't make the kitchen so 
attractive to them. What has Miss Rosalie 
been doing now? I must speak to her 
seriously aboot it" 

And then cook's anger all melted, and she 
said she'd spoken 'asty, and let bygones be 
bygones, and perhaps miss had only meant 
it kindly, and she'd stay on if mother liked ; 
and mother said, " All right, cook ; and the 
master said the vol-au-vent at lunch was a 
perfect dream." - And there the matter ended, 
except that mother forbade me to go down- 
stairs at all. 

It was no use trying to make peace between 
mother and father, because they never quarrel. 
Once, when mother lightly told him he was 
an old crosspatch, I said, reproachfully : " Oh, 
mother, I'm sure father didn't mean to be 
unkind Do unsay that cruel speech." And 
mother was quite angry with me, and she 
and father began to talk about boarding- 
schools at once, so I left the room. 

My path of peace was not made easy for 
me. 1 thought and thought until all of a 
sudden I remembered Uncle Boardman, and 

VoL xxxvii— 23. 

the awful break there was between him and 
our family. It was all because father had 
advised him to spend his ill-gotten gains 
while he was alive, and have some fun for 
his money, instead of hoarding it up for his 
greedy relations ; and Uncle Boardman had 
been furious with father, and said there was 
one greedy relation by marriage who should 
never see an ill-gotten penny, and perhaps he 
could guess who that was. 

I don't think it was at all nice of father 
to say the gains were ill-gotten. Mother 
said it was a joke, but perhaps Uncle Board- 
man doesn't always understand father's jokes. 
I know I don't. 

Anyhow, we never visit him and he never 
visits us, and never sends birthday presents 
to Willie and me, or takes me to the Zoo as 
he used to when I was seven. It came to 
me all at once that perhaps I might be a 
humble instrument, as Evangeline Lily was, 
and peace should be brought by the hands 
of a little child. I felt regretfully that I was 
too old myself. I am twelve and tall for my 
age, and I heard Ada tell cook that I got 
plainer every day. Not that I wish to be 
beautiful. Far from it. My only wish is 
that I may become a blessing to my parents, 
and make the world a better and a happier 

And then I thought of Willie, and it came 
to me in a flash. Willie is indeed an angel 
child. He is three, and Uncle Boardman 
has never seen him. He is always dressed 
in spotless white, and his head is a mass of 
rippling golden curls. His eyes are blue and 
his mouth a rosebud, and he can say fourteen 
pieces of poetry without a mistake. On 
mother's At-Home days he comes in and 
says, " Do you ask what the birds say ? " 
till everyone is on the verge of tears. Father 
says they may well cry. He doesn't like 
recitations. He says they make him want 
to go home. There is something about 
father I don't understand I heard him 
once — and it is one of the darkest secrets 
of my life — I heard him say to mother : 
" For Heaven's sake, Madge, give the boy a 
chance to grow up a man. I wish to good- 
ness I could see a little more devil in him ! " 

Wasn't it dreadful of poor father? And 



i 7 8 




mother only laughed, and stroked darling 
Willie's gold head. She very often only 
laughs at father when she ought to reprove 

It was just four days before Christmas 
that the inspiration came to me. In stories 
it is always Christmas Eve when the erring 
one comes home, and the little child runs 
in and softens the heart of the aged and 
Iron-willed relative who has disinherited his 
parent* With a wild cry of " My Madeline's 
child," or "My own darling's blue eyes/' the 
little messenger of love is clasped to the 
hearts— now no longer of iron, 

I knew father and mother were going to 
dine at grandfather's on Christmas Eve, and 
I persuaded mother to let nurse go and spend 
the day with her relations— a thing she is 
generally only too ready to do, and I said to 
mother : i4 Dearest, it will be only kind to let 
others share our happiness now, won't it?" 
And mother said, nonsense, nurse would have 
the whole of Boxing Day, and if she wanted 
more holidays she was never afraid to ask for 
them. And nurse said Miss Rosalie was up 
to some mischief, she'd be bound, and you 
wouldn't catch her being sent out of the way 
so soft as that 

That showed me how difficult the path of 
the peacemaker is, but I was in the kind of 

mood when difficulties only spurred me on, 
and I thought of the detective story I'd read 
before " Evangeline Lily/' where the brave 
young hero draws the villain on to a false 
scent by a wily telegram. So on Christmas 
Eve morning I went down to town by bus 
and sent off a telegram to nurse, with these 
simple, truthful words :— 

" Come at once ere it be too late. Peter 
needs you." 

Now, Peter is nurse's young man, and they 
are to be married as soon as he has saved 
enough to pay the first instalment of the 
furniture; and nurse was always telling me 
how far from industrious he was, and how- 
much he needed her to keep him at it. / 
couldn't help her thinking that he'd fallen 
off some scaffolding and become mortally 
injured, could I ? 

She went at once, and mother gave her a 
sovereign for emergencies. Mother is very 
indiscriminate in her charities; I heard the- 
vicar's wife tell her so once. 

"Dearest," I said to mother, "you and 
father shall not be deprived of your pleasure. 
You mustn't stay at home, and I will give up 
my day to taking care of little Willie/' 

Mother said that she'd no intention of 
staying at home and cook would look after 
Willie as usutflJ na ' fronn 




You wouldn't believe how my path was 
beset with difficulties that day, Willie was 
crosser than I have ever known him, and 
cook was very rude to me and said Pd got on 
her nerves, and she didn't wonder the poor 
pet couldn't bear it, and wouldn't I go and 
sit in the drawing-room for a bit with a nice 

I went away 
in dignified 
silence, and later 
on I heard cook 
carry him up to 
mothers room 
and put him on 
the bed. He 
must have fallen 

Now is my 
time, I thought, 
1 took my box 
of chocolates 
from the drawer 
where I keep 
them T and crept 
up like a mouse. 
I woke him up 
gently and pop- 
ped one in his 
mouth before he 
had time to yell, 
and then 1 
dressed him in 
his new white 
serge kilt and 
his white fur 
coat and little 
three - cornered 
hat, and but- 
toned up his 
white gaiters, 
and gave hinn 
his new woolly 
bear— which he 
oughtn't to have 
had till to-mor- 
row—to hug. 
He was as happy 
as a king, and ■ he was aa M&m *sa k^c, ani> i 
I carried him 

softly downstairs. Cook and Ada were 
giggling in the kitchen and making hot 
buttered toast, as I could smell ; and Willie 
sniffed and said he was hungry, so I gave 
him a part of my best chocolates. 

At the corner of the street I took a taxi, 
and we got to Uncle Boardman's in no time. 
I had a sweet picture post-card of a dove, 
that Ada had sent me from Margate last 

summer, and on the address side of it I 
wrote, " Let there be peace between you and 
us, — Your repentant Madge." And I tied 
it to Willie's pearl button- Mother's name 
is Madge. 

When I found myself standing on Uncle 
Boardman's doorstep with Willie clinging to 

my hand I 
trembled from 
head to foot I 
whispered to 
Willie what he 
was to do. He 
was to say he 
was little Willie, 
and that he had 
a message for 
dear uncle, and 
then he was to 
run up to uncle 
and fling his 
baby arms round 
his withered old 
neck and say, 
"Love me, 
dearest uncle, 
for my mother's 

Willie said he 
would if Td 
give him all the 
chocolates, so in 
despair I pushed 
the box into his 
hands and 
pressed the 
electric button, 
and as the door 
began to open 
I fled to my 
taxi. Just as we 
grunted round 
the corner I 
caught a glimpse 
of a hansom 
driving up, with 
what looked like 
Uncle Rupert 
inside it, but I 
didn't wait to 
make sure, because I thought it best not to 
meet Unrle Rupert just then. 

He's Uncle Board man's other nephew, and 
the one father had meant when he talked about 
greedy relations, I heard mother say once 
that poor Rupert never had been fond of 
work. This seems to me very wrong of him. 
The taxi-man said a lot of unkind things 
because I read (ac registered fare, and told 





him I couldn't give him anything extra because 
he might only spend it in beer if I did. He 
said I needn't worry over the beer, as gin and 
bitters was his fancy, but I passed him in 
dignified displeasure, and he said no more, 

I happened to arrive home at the unhappy 
moment when cook and Ada first missed 
Willie, and I found them both scurrying up 
and down stairs like rabbits ; and cook was 
very red in the face, and said she felt like 
spasms, and would Ada run to the corner 
and fetch her sixpenn'orth. And Ada caught 
me by the sleeve and said, " Thank good- 
ness, Miss Rosalie — and whatever has gone 
with that there child?" 

w Be calm," I said " He is safe." 

"Safe where?" cook asked, suspiciously. 

" In good hands," said I. 

"I don't believe it/ 3 said cook. "You 
tell me at once, Miss Rosalie, what's gone 
with that child, or I'll let your mar know." 

"In good time," said I, "mother will 
know all/' 

Cook sat down suddenly on the tall chair 
and said she could feel it coming on again, 
and what in Mercy's name had I done with 
my little brother, 

" Willie," said I, gravely 4 * is conducting a 
mission of great importance." 

M Mission \ i} cried Ada. "You've never 
been and took him into them nasty slums?" 

" Young as he is," I pursued, warmly, " the 
happiness of many is lying in his little hands/' 

* f There'll be un'appiness for one if he's 

been and gone and got 'is little feet wet;" 
cried cook> fiercely, but I passed upstairs 
and locked my door. " Let them bang and 
ask questions/' I told myself* "They'll be 
sorry some day." 

When the end eame> however, they weren't 
half as sorry as I was, but that is part of the 
bitterness of life. 

I didn't come down until the pangs of 
hunger drove me to it, and then, sitting over 
the kitchen fire with a raspberry puff, which 
cook said she had put in on purpose for me, 
1 thought how cruel to keep them in this 
agony of suspense, and all at once I told all 
Besides, cook said she wouldn't give me 
another puff if I didn't— not that that would 
have made any difference if I had not felt it 
to be right. 

I thought cook would have choked when 
I told her. She sat in the rocking-chair and 
laughed and laughed till the tears ran down 
her face, and Ada said, " Lor', cook, do stop 
and listen at 'er ! " And they quite saw it in 
a proper light, only Ada said that from glim- 
merings she'd picked up while waiting at 
table she didn't fancy as father was all that 
eager for a reconcile. 

"Nor me neither," said cook, U I hope 
they won't give that precious child anything 
that will upset him. Christmas Eve, too. 
You remember the to-do we had with him 
after them last mince-pies r Ada ? " 

Ada said was she likely to forget it, and 
when did I suppose they'd send him home? 





11 1 never thought of that," said I. 
" When your mar comes home," said Ada, 
sharply, "she'll go upstairs to the night 
nursery as usual to see that he's all right 
Nurse away, too ! What will meet her there ? 
Empty cot. Nice, won't it be? You had 
ought to think of them things, Miss Rosalie, 
aforehand. Peace messenger, indeed ! Who's 
going to give the message to your pore mar ? 
Im ftot t I tell you straight." 

My slight feeling of uncomfortableness 
grew and grew. It was twelve before the cab 
drove up with father and mother, and I 
shivered under my bedclothes, and when 
I heard cook's heavy steps outside my door 
I feigned a sleep I did not feel. 

" None o' that," said cook, brutally. " Up 
you get and put on your red flannel dressing- 
gownd, and down you come and confess the 
whole truth to yer mar." 

;< I am afraid it will make my toothache 
worse," said I, pressing my handkerchief to 
my cheek. 

"Not it," said cook. "I'll give you a 
clove to put in your mouth when we get 

I will draw a veil over my parents' cruel 
misunderstanding of my motives, and only 
say that, after they had exhausted their wrath, 
mother suddenly began to laugh in a silly 
way and then burst into tears ; and father 
said, "Oh, all right," and rushed off in a cab 
to find out if Willie was still alive. " Does 
my Uncle Boardman eat helpless children ? " 
I asked, sardonically. 

Father wasn't very long, and when he came 
back he brought no Willie. 
" The child ? " mother said, faintly. 
Father laughed. 

"Why, that's all right," he said. "He's 
asleep in bed, and James says the old man 
was quite taken with him. He told the 
servants he'd never seen such a spirited child. " 
"Spirited?" said mother, in surprise. 
I was surprised, too. 

"He seems to have turned out quite a 
little Tartar/' said father. " Kicked James's 
shins like mad when he took him off to bed, 
and bit uncle's hand." 

"Willie?" cried mother, in amazed dis- 
belief. "Kicked?" 
I couldn't believe it either. 
" So 1 told them to give him porridge for 
breakfast, and to be sparing with the 
Christmas fare ; and James smiled, and said 
he was a young gentleman as didn't wait to 
be asked, but they'd do their best." 
Then he and mother sent me off to bed, 

and I heard father ask mother, as they shut 
the door, what in Heaven's name was to 
be done with that awful little prig. And 
mother said: "Yes, isn't she? But, really, 
dear, it may be for the best, after all." 

AH Christmas Day we waited for Willie in 
anxious suspense, and at last mother said 
that he must have won uncle's heart by his 
angel ways. And then on Boxing Day a letter 
came from Uncle Boardman which made 
father and mother nearly jump with surprise. 

" Dear Niece Madge," he said, " I am 
still at a loss to understand how you two 
came to have such a delightful and original 
child, but he has quite conquered me. What 
his nurse can be like, or in what stable he 
has been brought up, I cannot imagine. Has 
he been put out to nurse in Whitechapel ? 
However, I want to see you both at once in 
affectionate remembrance of your husband's 
last well-meant and unasked-for advice, so 
come in to luncheon to-morrow, if you can. 
— Your admiring uncle, 

"Ezra Boardman." 

Father shook his head. 

" Poor old chap's breaking up," said he. 
" We must go and see him, of course. It's 
the most extraordinary thing I ever knew." 

I tried to slip out of the room unnoticed, 
but mother forestalled me. 

"You shall come with us, Rosalie," said 
she. " It's only right that you should enjoy 
the results of your mission. Put your new 
red coat on, and get nurse to do your hair 

I was obliged to disobey her in this, for I 
did not wish to meet nurse just yet. She'd 
had words with her Peter, it seems, about 
that telegram, and he refused to forgive her 
for calling him the kind of story-teller she 
did call him. It was Ada who advised me 
to keep out of her way, and I brushed my 
own hair, because it is only kind to spare 
your inferiors whenever you can. 

In the cab, going, father said to mother 
that he was very much annoyed. "Why 
should we make friends with the old sinner ? " 
he said. " I'm not interested in Uncle 
Boardman's money. Why, Madge, we have 
enough of our own. Don't be a greedy little 

" Oh, father, I'm sure mother didn't mean 
to be greedy," I remarked, gently ; and father 
said, " Shut up ! " and told me not to speak 
until I was spoken to. He sounded quite 

" No," said mother. " Only it's nice to 
feel at peace with the whole world at Christ- 




" Yes, isn't it, mother, dear ? " I cried ; and 
father groaned and began to tell mother 
about a new boarding-school he'd heard of 
in Yorkshire. 

James let us in, and then Mrs. Furrows 
appeared and seemed so pleased to see 
mother, and said, " It's good to see your 
pretty face again, Miss Madge," and then 
she laughed and said she supposed we'd 
come for the boy. And mother said, " Yes. 
And how is he, Furrows ? " and Furrows 
laughed and showed mother where Willie 
had bitten her hand. " Loi^, Miss Madge, 
what a little tinker he is ! " she said. 

We all felt deeply surprised to hear this 
of our angel Willie. Mother simply stared 
at Furrows, and James, too. James said he 
was a rare one for his own way, and talk 
about kicking ! He said he'd like to show 
us his shins, but mother and father gave him 
no encouragement. And then a door was 
suddenly opened in the basement, and a 
shrill voice burst upon the Christmas air, 
singing : " Put me amongst the girls ! " 

"Hark at him, Miss Madge," said Furrows, 
respectfully. "The maids are all there listen- 
ing to him in the kitchen. The songs he 
sings ! Every word of 'em, too ! " 

Speechless and silent we followed James 
into the library, and there sat Uncle Board- 
man in a teclining-chair. He rose with 
difficulty and said we were earlier than he 
had expected, but he could forgive a good 
deal to the father and mother of that wonder- 
ful child. 

" Where's he got it from ? " he cried, de- 
lightedly. " Where's he picked it up ? " 

Mother looked bewildered and said, 
"Picked what up?" 

" His — well, his accent, his songs, his 
unparalleled repertoire of songs. His — well, 
his expletives." 

" Dear uncle,'* said mother, sadly, " I can- 
not pretend to understand you. Willie has 
no songs. He has no ear for music, but he 
recites charmingly. Has he said, * Do you 
ask what the birds say ? ' yet ? " 

Uncle Boardman chuckled. 

"No, but he's told me what his young 
companions say ; and that's enough for one 
evening. How you come to have a child of 
such spirit — well, it passes me." 

" Has Willie been naughty, then?" I asked, 
in grieved tones. 

" Naughty ! " Uncle grinned. " Depends 
upon what you call good. But he's taken my 
fancy. I'm going to adopt him. It occurred 
to me that he might add interest and excite- 
ment to my old age. I've had a dull life." 

Digitized by ^OOQ IC 

Father said at once that we didn't intend 
to part with Willie, but uncle ignored him. 

" I meant to leave my money equally 
divided between Rupert and you, Madge," 
he said ; " but Rupert's grown sheep-like, and 
you don't need it. Besides, I want someone 
to have it who will know how to spend it and 
make the most of his life. I've wasted 

And then uncle rang tht fcfeU and told 
James to fetch Master William, We heard 
all sorts of strange noises outside while we 
were waiting, and then shrieks and scufflings 
in the hall outside the door, and suddenly 
it banged open and James came in, carrying 
in his arms a fighting bundle of boy, but not 
our boy — not Willie. 

" Why, who is this ? " father cried. Mother 
sat down suddenly. 

Uncle said, " Don't you know your own 

And I said all at once in firm tones, 
"This is not my brother." 

It was a dark, fierce-eyed, scowling little 
creature, fighting and struggling in James's 
masculine arms, and although dressed in what 
had once been Willie's beautiful white kilt 
(now a greyish drab colour) he was as unlike 
our golden-haired darling as possible — more 
so, in fact. 

Father asked firmly what the meaning of 
this tomfoolery was, and mother began to 
go white. Uncle said, " Nonsense, it must 
be your child. Your message was pinned 
to his coat." And then James put the 
changeling down suddenly, and sucked his 
finger warmly. 

Then mother rose, and asked in a shaky 
voice where her child was, and uncle began 
to look surprised and asked what the dickens 
we meant by it. 

" Rosalie ! " said father, sternly, " tell the 

I began to cry. "I left Willie on the door- 
step," said I, "and pulled the bell, and 
ran. I saw the door open. I saw Uncle 
Rupert driving up in a cab, too—" 

Glances were exchanged rapidly. 

" James ! " said uncle. " Who took the 
child in?" 

" I did, sir," said James. 

"What time was it?" 

" Half-past five, sir, or maybe six o'clock." 

I opened my eyes. 

"Why, it wasn't four," I cried. "Oh, 
James, how can you ? " 

" Did you attend to the door all the after- 
noon ? " asked uncle, sharply. 

James looked confused and said " Yes," 




'UNCLK ^AiPi ' uon't you know your own chjld? 

unless Rose had happened to go once when 
he was looking at the paper, 

"Send fur Rose," said uncle. Mother 
was holding on to the table, all white and 
trembling, and father was pale, too. I wished 
1 hadn't come. 

Rose was the parlourmaid, and very pretty. 
She said at first that she'd seen nobody nor 
nothing, and then all at once she burst into 
tears and told us it wasn't fair, and that they 
ought to ask Mr. Rupert, not her. 

And then it all came out. My wicked uncle 
had found VVillie waiting there, all in white, a 
Christmas peace-child, to heal the wounds of 
years* and had laughed like anything, Rose 
sai<L And then he said he'd be even with 
father for that, and he told Rose not to say 
a word, and picked up Willie and carried him 
off to Aunt Jane's! Then he'd gone off to 
the Seven I >ials in a cab and borrowed the 
dirtiest, roughest, noisiest little scoundrel he 
could find, and got Aunt Jane to wash him 
and dress him up in Willie's clothes, and left 
him at uncle's with the peace message pinned 
to his coat. He thought uncle would never 

forgive father and mother for this trick. To 
do him justice, he had meant to return our 
own Willie intact the next day with a 
sardonic message of defiance from uncle. 
But, as father said afterwards, the biter was 
bit. No one could have guessed that uncle 
would take to that savage little boy as he 
had. He said he could listen to his lan- 
guage for hours with the greatest joy. 

When he heard who he really was, he said 
he should adopt him all the more. 

We didn't stay to lunch, because mother 
was wild to get Willie back, and we drove off 
in the cab together to Aunt Jane's, 

H Rupert/' said uncle, pleasantly, as we 
parted, " shall never see a penny of my ill-gotten 
gains. Neither shall you, Madge. 1 might 
have known he wasn't one of your priggish 
children. You and your peace-child 1 Bah ! iJ 

In the cab I sat In sad silence, Father 
laughed and comforted mother, and they 
both ignored me. I hadn't expected grati- 
tude, but I didn't think they would have 
settled then and there about that boarding 
school in Yorkshire. How like life ! 

by Google 

Original from 

Miss Lillah McCarthy, now playing the 
fascinating Lady Sybil Laze n by in 
*' What Every Woman Knows," has of late 
years become identified with the heroines of 
certain of Mr. Bernard Shaw's plays, especi- 
ally with the part of Anne Whitetield in 
11 Man and Superman/' Yet she has probably 
had as wide an experience as any leading 
actress of the day, ranging from Shakespeare 
to melodrama — from I^ady Macbeth and Juliet 
to Mercia in " The Sign of the Cross," 

Miss Ellaline Tekriss, one of the 
greatest theatrical favourites of the day, has 
been described as "all sunshine and simple 
sweetness," and it must be acknowledged 
that the phrase is a very felicitous description 
of her personality. In plays so diverse in 
character as ''Quality Street," ** Alice in 
Wonderland," and "The Gay Gordons," she 
has been equally successful — indeed, whatever 
she touches seems to turn to gold. The forth- 
coming production of a new musical version 
of "A Court Scandal," in which she is to 
appear as the Due de Richelieu, formerly 
played by her husband, Mr Seymour Hicks, 
will be awaited with great interest. 

Miss Dorothea Bairii during the last 
few years has been sharing in the great 
success with which Mr. H. B, Irving's 
revivals of some of his father's famous 
productions have been received* That she 
has done so well is no small tribute to her 
skill and versatility, seeing that in some of 
the parts she was following in the steps of 
Miss Ellen Terry* 

Miss Violet Vanbrugh's return to the 
(jarrick Theatre, after an unusually prolonged 
absence, is very welcome to London playgoers, 
During their long tour Miss Vanhrugh and her 
husband, Mr, Arthur Bourchier, have been 
delighting provincial audiences with (i The 
Walls of Jericho, " "John Cilayde's Honour," 
and " The Arm of the Law," three virile plays 
which afford ample scope for the display of 
Miss Vanbnjgh T s gift for emotional acting. 

Miss Lily Brayton, perhaps the finest 
tragedienne among our younger actresses^ 
received her training in that best of all 


schools, the company of Mr. F. R. Benson, 
Who that saw her as Viola in " Twelfth Night" 
can forget the charm and naturalness with 
which she imbued one of the most delightful 
— and difficult — of Shakespeare's heroines? 
Other performances which will be recalled 
with delight are Rosalind, one of her most 
effective parts ; Ophelia, to the Hamlet of 
Mr. IL B. Irving; and Katherine in "The 
Taming of the Shrew," in which her husband, 
Mr, Oscar Asche, is such a fine Petruchia 

Miss Nina Boucicault, one of the 
most gifted actresses of the day, has been 
delighting the public by her admirable per- 
formance in "Sir Anthony," Though her 
part is a small one she gives it an indi- 
viduality which makes a lasting impression. 
There is, indeed, a wistfulness, a tenderness, 
in her acting which gives most of her imper- 
sonations a character all their own. If for 
no other reason, the fact that she " created " 
Peter Pan would of itself assure her of an 
abiding place in the affections of all dis- 
criminating playgoers. 

Miss Mav de So us a is a delightful 
actress and singer of whom we have seen far 
too little recently in London. It is true she 
made a welcome appearance during the last 
few weeks of the run of " Havana " at the 
Gaiety, but much of her time has been spent 
in Paris, where she achieved a great success. 
When she came to London for the Drury 
Lane pantomime three years ago she brought 
from her native America a reputation which 
was endorsed by her London audiences. 

Miss Lilian Braethwaite is now appear - 
ing at The Playhouse in that great success 
"The Flag Lieutenant." She plays Lady Her- 
niione Wynne, who so bravely stands by Flag- 
Lieutenant I^ascelles in his time of trial, and, 
though the part does not give her too many 
opportunities, it is a very sympathetic one, 
exactly suited to her personality. Many of 
her best-known successes have been gained 
with Mr, George Alexander, with whom 
she appeared in iC If I Were King," 1( Old 
Heidelberg/' " Lady Windermere's Fan," 
and other pluysal from 





Ft tint u f's'tti/rgniftJi f'X Tht L&rtttflrt Sfartirsci&ir Camjkfitf. 

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VoL xAnviL— Z4. 


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1 86 




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From a Fket&graph hy The D&wr St*rrt Studio*. 

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by Google 

Original from-^*""' 





Fr&tn a Pka U^mpk ly Bassnna, LhL 


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by Google 

- Original from 

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Fruftx a Phatagra^h k? The Dtr&rr Strict Stujftei 

by Google 

Original from 




HE touched her companion 
on the arm as he examined, 
with the frown of criticism, a 
bookcase which bore a card, 
" Guaranteed Second - hand." 
Turning with obedience, he 
found that the lady had already set her head 
at an angle of confident appeal; the shop- 
man, in close attendance since the moment 
they entered the establishment, gave a swift, 
brief recitation. "This" — glibly — "is what 
we call our oak-fumed hall fitment, comprising 
hall seat, umberella rack, hat and coat pegs, 
etcet'ra, original price sixteen guineas, we 
are clearing out at six seven six, sold a large 
quantity this season, only one left." 

"Somewhat bulky," remarked the young 

"Now," the girl protested, "I do consider 
that unkind of you." She peered over his 
shoulder. " How far have we got ? " 

" Pretty close to the limit." 

" Let me see for myself." Snatching the 
list from his hand, she essayed the task of 
compound addition. " You write your twos 
just like your sevens." 

" Make 'em as I always have made 'em, 

41 That's no excuse ! " 

He sighed as she went up the columns 
again, using her fingers to assist reckoning, 
and he gave his attention again to the book- 
case, testing the working of the key, trying 
the strength of shelves. The shopman, 
with the air of one anxious not to take sides, 
but to keep on good terms with both parties, 
and to keep them on good terms, pointed 
out, as a fortunate circumstance, that the hall 
fitment and the bookcase might be said 
to match ; she asked abruptly what that 
had to do with it, and the shopman gave an 
outward gesture with both hands as substi- 
tute for a verbal reply. 

"Unless I'm wrong," she called to her 
companion (the tone of her voice giving 
no room for doubt concerning her own 
opinion in this regard), " unless I'm very 
much mistaken there's still a margin left. 
Leave off fiddling about over there, Charles, 
and come and look at this. That ■ is," 
satirically, "if you can spare the time." 

VoL xxxWi— 25. 

He came over at once. 

"Don't think I want everything my own 
way," she implored. "You know me well 
enough by this time to be aware that I'm 
always open to argument. If this piece of 
furniture isn't suitable, I'm the last person to 
insist on you buying it. But imagine it to 
yourself! Fancy you're a visitor, and you 
come to make a call ; the front door is 
opened to you, and in you walk. What's the 
first thing you do ? " 

" Wipe me boots." 

"Never mind about your boots," impa- 
tiently. " Think of the other end." 

"Take off me hat." 

" Exactly ! You take off your hat. What 
next ? Why " — answering the question her- 
self — "you look around for somewhere to 
hang it. You say, * Where's the hat- 

"Couldn't we have some pegs fixed in a 
row, as it were, not too high and not 
too " 

The girl sat down in a convenient easy- 
chair and fanned herself with the list, moving 
one brown shoe restlessly. The shopman 
remarked that the chair formed, really and 
actually, part of a suite, but if she cared he 
would see the manager and endeavour to 
persuade him to allow it to be detached. 

"Then, again," went on her companion, 
" supposing you bought this, and supposing 
I came as a visitor, chances are ten to one 
I should fall over it in the passage. Look 
here ! " He illustrated the ease by which 
such an accident could occur. 

" I was assuming," she remarked, coldly, 
"that our callers had eyes in their heads. 
Come on ! " — with an effort. " Let's see 
about going ; I'm sure it's getting late." 

The attendant declared the hour was not 
so far advanced as she assumed ; his own 
watch had been synchronized that very day 
with Greenwich time. He called their atten- 
tion once more to the fact that of their 
stock of oak-lumed hall fitments this speci- 
men alone remained, and hinted that any 
delay in making a decision might have 
results that he could only describe as fatal. 
Disastrous incidents of the kind had, in his 




Young couples had come in, looked at some 
attractive article of furniture, hesitated, an- 
nounced that they would call again, and, 
when they did call again, found, to their 
intense disappointment, that it had been 
snapped up by a party of similar tastes but 
greater powers of decision. 

" Look here, Lily," said the young man, 
resolutely, ''we've got to settle this. I want 
to put it to you fairly and squarely: if we 
buy the hat-stand, where are all my books 
to go ? * 

" Where are they now ?" 

"At mother's; in the case that's been in 
the family fur years," 

" Why not ask her to lend it to you ? " 

" If she'd been ready to do that, she would 
have offered." 

The girl pinched her under-lip and gave a 
few moments to silent thought. A voice 
from another de[*artment called " Mr. 
Turner!' 1 and the shopman— with a word 
of apology and an assurance that he would 
return speedily— left them. 


« I've— I've come out without a handker- 
chief," she faltered. 

He produced one from the sleeve of his coat. 

" I want you, Charles/' she said, brokenly, 
"I want you to— to do just as you think fit. 
I'm young, and I'm foolish, and I'm wrong- 
headed. 1 * 



NtV, ( I W, 

ANT YOU Tc&tgiPSJafnftllflou THINII 




"No, no!" 

" I defy anyone to stand up and say that 
I'm over twenty-four," she declared, with 
spirit. He explained that his contradiction 
was intended to refer to the other statements. 
"You know a great deal more about the 
world than I do, Charles," resuming her 
former tone, "and it's only right that you 
should have the last word. It isn't for me to 
dictate. If I was finding the money it'd be 
different ; I'm not ! The money's yours, and 
you've got to lay it out to what you consider 
the best advantage." 

" Don't quite see how we're to do without 
a bookcase." 

" You're perfectly right, Charles. A couple 
of six-inch nails driven into the wall will do 
well enough for the present." She presented a 
brave smile. " People must make allowances. 
And I don't want you to think, dear, that I'm 

" You're far from it," he asserted. " Never 
met a girl who was less so." 

" Handsome piece of furniture," she said, 
returning to look at the case. " You can put 
all your Dickenses on that row and all your 
Encyclopaedia books on this." 

"Just what I was thinking." 

"Itll be a pleasure to me to take them out 
and dust them every day." 

" Not every day." 

" Every day ! " she said, firmly. " It 
doesn't do to let work accumulate. And I'll 
see that every one is kept in its proper place. 
That shall be one of my special duties. 
Directly you've given me a kiss and left 
for office in the morning I shall clear the 
breakfast-table, and I shall say to myself, 
' Now let me see about my dear, dear 
husband's books ! ' " 

The shopman returned, pulling down his 
cuffs, and asking cheerfully to what address 
the hall fitment would have the pleasure of 
being sent The girl explained. 

" Pardon me ! " interrupted Charles. His 
head gave the shiver that betokens a man's 
resolution. " You've behaved very nicely 
over this affair, Lily, and I admire you for it. 
This is the address,". he said to the attendant. 
Taking the book he wrote the particulars, 
" Don't make a muddle, please. It's the 
hat stand we're taking ; the hat-stand, not 
the bookcase." 

Outside, the girl asked permission to take 
his arm, a favour readily granted. As 
they danced their way towards the tramway 
terminus she remarked that her mother's 
words had again come true. Mother always 
said that when two people had a disagreement 
both should give a little and take a little. 


The lad, whistling a cheerful march as 
he turned the corner, nodded to one or two 
folk, and observed with satisfaction that 
children, on catching sight of him, ran indoors 
to announce his return. At one gate he 
stopped and gave a word of compliment and 
one of criticism regarding hollyhocks ; the 
woman remarked that if he grew as straight 
and as upright he would do. Softening, she 
asked what he was doing in this part of London ; 
did he intend to return? He answered 
with a knowing shake of the head, and ex- 
plained that he had only strolled round to see 
the old girl and to cheer her up a bit ; four 
minutes was about all he could spare, owing 
to the imminence of other engagements. 

" Seem to fancy yourself now that you're on 
your own." 

" Yes," he admitted, frankly, "I do." 

" And to think that I can remember you 
when you hadn't " 

He hurried on to escape reminiscences of 
his babyhood. Here was one of the draw- 
backs of Stoke Newington ; always a risk of 


encountering someone who had known you 
in early years, and in consequence refused to 
admit your maturity. He did not allow him- 
self to be again drawn into conversation, but 
went steadily along to No. 48. His elaborate 
knock at the front door was not at once 
answered, and he rattled his stick against the 
window. Finally, pressed back the tongue 
of the letter-box and called " Mother ! " 

"And I've kept you waiting!" she cried, 
self-reproachfully. " How are you, Lorry ? 
I was in the kitchen, busy, and thinks I to 
myself, * It's only the party with the Church 
Magazine. Let her knock.' And all the 
time it was you. Come along inside ; I am 
pleased to see you, and that's a fact." 

"Thought I'd just look round and see how 
you were getting on." 

"You step in the front room," begged his 
mother, "whilst I just go and pop something 
in the oven." 

" Don't you trouble about supper for me. 
I can't stay more than " 

" It isn't forflrniftpfabe said 




The lad took the easy-chair because- its 
use had always been forbidden to him ; 
found his box of cigarettes, but, after a 
moment's consideration, decided not to 
push triumph too far. There was something 
very satisfactory in returning to find himself 
an honoured guest where he had foimerly 
been treated as a child not above the age 
of the rocking-horse portrait on the mantel- 
piece. That reminded him ; he must have 
his photograph taken again, and send a copy 
home. Turning, he examined the contents 
of the glass-covered bookcase. 

"Vvhilst I think of it, mother," he re- 
marked, as she entered the room, "this is 
a book of mine I forgot to take when I 
cleared out a fortnight ago." 

" It's got your father's name in it." 

"Always understood it belonged to me," 
he declared. 

" Take the book, Lorry, if you think you 
ought to have it." 

" Right's right," he said, doggedly. 

" Have you got a nice room, my dear ? " 
she asked, after a pause. 

He had to rise from the easy-chair in order 
to give full information, to furnish the length, 
breadth, and height ; the carpet, he asserted, 
was so much better than the one on which 
he was standing that no comparison could be 
made. The furniture one could only describe 
as high -class ; the window looked right 
across almost to the market gardens — in fact, 
you might, with a little imagination, fancy 
yourself miles and miles away from anywhere. 
Landlady a motherly person ; daughter 
musical. People next door sang every 
evening in the Welsh language. An amateur 
orchestra met opposite twice a week. 

" You're in your element," she remarked, 
pleasantly. He motioned to her to occupy 
the easy-chair, and was going on with details 
when his mother put a question. 

Cook ? He would rather think his land- 
lady could cook. Why, she herself had told 
him over and over again of the congratula- 
tions paid to her in regard to this on various 
occasions by folk accustomed to nothing less 
than the best. 

"That's half the battle," admitted the 
mother. "Just open the door, and keep it 

Of course, he had not much personal 
experience of his landlady's cooking, because 
the arrangement was that he should get a 
snack of something in Aldersgate Street at 
midday, and come home to something like 
supper at night. No, not a hot supper; 
generally cold ham or cold mutton, and 

the only fault he had to find was that she 
cut it rather thin ; he would have preferred 
to see the joint on the table. Not a very 
good hand, perhaps, at a salad ; indeed, she 
rather prided herself on the fact that she 
never had been able to mix one to her own 

" Sorry to find, mother," he remarked, dis- 
missing consideration of his own affairs, 
"that you haven't managed to let." 

"Coming in this evening. In fact, I'm 
expecting them now, at any moment." 

" Them ? " 

"Two very well-mannered lads," she ex- 
plained, "of about your own age. I'm to 
give them breakfast — just bacon and eggs 

— in the morning, and By the by, 

how do you get on in the mornings, 

" Don't much like her coffee and can't 
quite stand her tea." 

" Pity ! " 

"So I tell you what I do, mother. If 
there's time — and once or twice she's for- 
got to give me a knock — I look in at a 
place near the Barbican and have a mug and 
a roll and butter. Oh," lightly, " I manage 
all right" 

"Of an evening," she went on, glancing 
at the clock, " I'm to get just about what 
I used to have ready for you. You know — 
something warm and tasty. Only," with 
determination, " I tell them as I told you — 
they must be in by eleven. I explained to 
'em that that was the trouble between you 
and me, and my opinion was that eleven 
ought to be late enough for any young 

" My landlady's very sensible in that 
way," he remarked. " She gives me a latch- 

" Excuse me one moment," said his mother, 
leaving. " I don't want it to get burnt." 

A very agreeable scent came in from the 
kitchen ; the lad sniffed appreciatively. He 
went to the open door to obtain further 
gratification, and returned with a suspicion 
of moistness about his lips. Again he took 
out the box of cigarettes ; again replaced 
it in his pocket. Began to exhibit signs of 
restlessness and walked about the room, 
setting things straight that were crooked ; 
setting things crooked that were straight. 

" Smells good, mother." 

" I'd ask you to have some," she said, 
" only that it would look rather bad for them 
to see it had been cut into. You'll find a 
knife and fork laid, I expect, when you get 

backlt ^lWffit'HIGAN 



She went to the bookcase and took down 
the volume ; inquired whether he would like 
it to be packed in brown paper. If so, he 
knew where to find some— in the drawer of 
the kitchen dresser, where he would also dis- 
cover pieces of string. The Lad came back 
after a while with the string, but without 
the paper, and had to make a second 

( * Now we can manage/' she remarked, 

cheerfully, " Do you mind putting your 

finger just there whilst I tie the knot ? That's 

right" The boy did not speak, and she 

chattered on. " Shouldn't depend on the 

string if I was you; carry it like this," A 
knock at the front door; the two glancing at 
each other. ki Will you answer it," she asked, 
looking at his eyes, "or — or shall I go?" 

He went smartly to the front door. His 
mother was sorry, he explained to the two 
callers, but there had occurred some mis- 
understanding; the room had been already 
engaged- The two lads grumbled, spoke 
bitterly of the business qualities of women, 
and left 

"Had an idea," she said to herself, putting 
a handkerchief away, " that the hot veal pie 
would do the trick ! " 

by Google 

Original from 

" My Reminiscence® . " 



[There is probably no European traveller or big-game hunter of greater celebrity than Mr. Sebus, the recital 
of whose South African experiences has thrilled many thousands of readers Besides befng a veteran sportsman, 
he is also a pioneer of British civilization in Africa, and the author of many books, including " A Hunter s 
Wanderings in South Africa/' "Travel and Adventure," "Sport and Travel East and West/' etc. Mr. Selous 
ha* collected in London the camp and other equipment for Mr. Roosevelt s hunting expedition, and will 
go with him as far as Mombasa, ] 

S a very small boy I confess 
to a strong partiality for tales 
of adventure, such as those 
of Ballantyne and Mayne 
Reid, but in this respect I 
do not suppose I differed 

from most other schoolboys. In my case, 

however, I soon turned from works of fiction 

to true talcs of travel, 

and the works of 

Gordon Cumming, 

Baldwin, and other 

African hunters and 

travellers, which I 

read when a boy at 

R ugby, deter mi ned 

me to seek my for- 
tune in the Dark 

Continent, amidst 

wild beasts and 

savages, at the earliest 


I was born, I think, 

with a very .sound 

constitution, and was, 

too, naturally strong 

and active. My father 

taught me to swim 

when I was a mere 

child, and when only 

fourteen, in my first 

year at Rugby, I took 

the second prize for 

swimming, and would 

have taken first prize the following year but 

for a slight accident on the very eve of the 

race* The proficiency I thus early acquired 

in swimming proved of the utmost service to 

me in after-life. Indeed, had I not been an 

exceptionally good swimmer I should have 

lost my own life on several occasions, and 

failed to save the lives of at least three other 

men whom I rescued from drowning in 

Africa, As a schoolboy I was an inveterate 

poacher and an enthusiastic egg-collector. I 
remember once taking an owls nest from a tree 
just outside the study window of Dr. Temple, 
the head master of Rugby in my time, and 
afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, To 
do this I had to get out of my dormitory at 
night, reaching the ground with the help of a 
rain-pipe and a creeper which covered the 

side of my house. 

When I climbed 
the tree just outside 
Dr. Temple's study 
window his light was 
still burning, and he 
must have heard me 
climbing the tree, as 
he opened the win- 
dow and called out, 
"Who's- there?" I 
gave no answer, but 
remained motionless 
until he again shut 
the window, and then 
got safely back to the 
dormitory with the 
owl's eggs- 

1 left Rugby when 
only sixteen, and after 
two years spent in 
Switzerland and Ger- 
many, in order to 
learn French and 
German, at last set 
out for the land of my 
dreams — South Africa — landing at Cape Town 
in September, 1871, when I was still only 
nineteen years of age- I had four hundred 
pounds in my pockets and a sound constitu- 
tion, and with these assets my life of real 
adventure, of hunting wild beasts and leading 
the free life of the veld, began. When I took 
back over the past forty years of my life, 
I see a succession of pictures, of odd and 
moving exWH&Wfles, of dangers, of hunger and 



thirst, fever and ague, of he^t and cold and 

fatigue, and yet I am bound to say they have 

left me sound in wind and limb and as keen 

for the life of the traveller and hunter as 

when I packed up my books and left Rugby 

for ever. 

When I first started out, rifle in hand, into 
the Matabele country, my ambition aimed at 
nothing less than the shooting of large game 
— in fact, the very largest game in the world. 
You can imagine my feelings, therefore, when, 
upon presenting myself to Lo Bengula, the 
famous King of the Matabele, for permission 
to hunt elephants in his territories, His Majesty 
refused point-blank. " You hunt elephants ! " 
he said ; " you are only a boy ; you had 
better hunt antelopes." But I was not to be 
daunted so easily ; I stuck pertinaciously 
(and literally) to my guns, and at last obtained 
the King's good-humoured consent to shoot 
anywhere, unfettered by the restrictions com- 
monly imposed upon the adult Nimrod. 

A great portion of my early hunting career 
was devoted to the pursuit of elephants, but 
this was because it was only by shooting 
elephants that I was able to make my 
living. Although I have been a successful 
hunter, I have always taken at least as 
great an interest in studying the habits and 
life history of wild animals as in killing them. 
And had I been possessed of private means I 
should undoubtedly have devoted myself to 
exploration and scientific work generally, 
rather than to the hunting of elephants. 
Circumstances, however, forced me to become 
a professional elephant hunter, and after all 
it was a glorious life, taking me continually 
into the wildest regions of the interior of 
South Africa, where, besides elephants, 
all other kinds of wild animals indigenous 
to the country were extraordinarily plentiful 
It was a hard life, and in the days of 
muzzle-loading guns as dangerous and exciting 
a pursuit as could be found the world over. 
For years, until the elephants grew scarcer 
and wilder, I found no difficulty in paying my 
expenses by the sale of the ivory I secured. 

I always hunted bare-legged when on foot, 
only wearing a cotton shirt, light shoes — 
which I made myself— and a broad-brimmed 
felt halt. Often when chased by wounded 
elephants through thick thorn bush I had 
the greater part of my shirt torn off me, and 
there was scarcely a square inch on the fore 
part of my body free from the scratches made 
by the wait-a-bit thorns. The hard life I led, 
however, walking and running after elephants 
all day long, kept every muscle in my body in 
splendid training, and my blood was always 

in such perfect condition that whatever 
wounds I received never failed to heal 
without the slightest inflammation. I hunted 
elephants almost entirely on foot, because 
these animals were in my time chiefly 
confined to the districts infested by the 
tsetse fly, which kills horses and all other 
domestic animals. 

The narrowest escape I ever had from 
death by an elephant occurred in 1878, 
when I, with three other English hunters, 
encountered a herd of elephants close to the 
Umbila River. This herd numbered some 
seventy or eighty animals, of which we killed 
twenty-two of the largest tuskers. We had 
had a long day before we came up with the 
elephants, and the subsequent galloping 
about after a time completely exhausted my 
horse. The fourth elephant I shot, a big 
bull, chased and very nearly overtook my 
tired horse, his terrific trumpeting sounding 
like an advancing locomotive. However, he 
just failed to catch me, and I subsequently 
killed him. 

A little later I attacked an old cow with 
fine tusks. I first gave her a bullet behind 
the shoulder, and a second in the chest just 
as she was on the point of charging. On 
receiving this shot she first backed a few 
paces, flapping her great ears against her 
sides, but then, recovering herself, charged, 
trumpeting loudly. My horse, now exhausted, 
made only a feeble effort to get clear, and 
the next moment was dashed to the ground. 
I myself was completely stunned by the 
violence with which I was thrown to the 
ground, and do not know exactly what 
happened, but in some way I got under 
the elephant's chest between her fore legs. 
Probably she went down on her knees when 
trying to stick her tusk through my body. 
Wrenching myself loose while she knelt, I 
succeeded in regaining my feet, and escaped 
into the bush. I found that I was absolutely 
covered with blood, which had poured on to 
me from the wound in the elephant's chest. 
Otherwise, except for bruises and abrasions, 
I was none the worse for this adventure. 
■This was no doubt a very lucky escape, but 
poor Quabeet, one of our Kaffirs, was not 
so fortunate on another occasion. He was 
pursuing a tuskless bull, which suddenly 
charged and, overtaking him, knelt on his 
stomach and literally wrenched him into 
three fragments. The head, chest, and arms 
were first pitched to one side, then a leg and 
a thigh, and thus having appeased his wrath 
the animal vanished. 

I have had many narrow escapes when 



hunting elephants on foot, but never, I think, 
did I have a harder run for life than once in 
the dense bush in the valley of Dett in 1873. 
I was following a big bull I had wounded, 
when I ran almost into a vicious old cow. 
I just saw her trunk whirling in the air as 
she turned and chased me with short, sharp 
screams of rage. I don't know how I got 
away, but I plunged headlong through thorn 
bushes with the elephant close behind me. 
At last I leapt through the forks of a thorn 
tree, and here my hat and my leathern belt 
were torn from me, It was at this point 
that the elephant gave up the chase, pro- 
bably halting to smell and examine my hat. 
When at last I shook off this pursuit there 
was nothing on me in the way of clothing but 
my shoes and the tattered remnants of a 
cotton shirt. 

This day was fated to be one of mis- 
adventure, for on again following the wounded 
bull from which the old cow had driven me 
away I encountered another, and on firing 
at him with one of my heavy muzzle -loading 
elephant guns, which had previously missed 
fire, found that the Kaffir gun-carrier, not 
realizing this, had loaded it again. This time, 

evidently badly" wounded, I presently fired 
at him again. He then went forward, and 
on my pursuing him turned and charged 
savagely. Shaken as I was, I managed to 
pull myself together, and fortunately stopped 
him with a four-ounce bullet in the front of 
the head. The want of success I met with 
on this most disastrous day was entirely due 
to the faultiness of the obsolete old muzzle- 
loading guns, which were the only weapons I 
could obtain at that time. 

I have had a good deal of experience with 
lions and a certain number of adventures. 
I certainly look upon these great carnivores 
as the most dangerous animals in Africa, 
though 1 do not think they are so tenacious 
of life as elephants, buffaloes, or the larger 
antelopes* I once tasted the flesh of a young 
lioness and found it most palatable. The 
meat was very white and quite free from any 
disagreeable taste. One of the most striking 
points about a lion is the intense brilliancy 
of its yellow eyes, which seem to turn soft 
and brown when in captivity. 

When I first went to South Africa I was a 
fairly good performer on that very sweet 
little instrument the zither, which I had 


unfortunately, it went off, and spun me round 
so that I fell face downwards, the gun flying 
yards away behind me. A deep cut in my 
cheek, two indies long, bled profusely, and 
my shoulder at first seemed paralyzed ; but 
not wishing to lose the elephant, which was 
now standing near me in the thick bush, 

learned to play during my residence in 
Bavaria, and frequently I found this accom- 
plishment of mine of distinct service to me. 
When travelling through the Transvaal, for 
instance, my musical talents used to keep me 
in butter, milk, and eegs. When we out- 

"MV Jt£AfAVfSC£iVCE5. n 


would go ahead and ask the Boer housewife 
if she was fond of music, because, if so, he 
had a friend who had an instrument he could 
play. On her signifying her pleasure at the 
announcement, I went forward and produced 
for the family's benefit my repertoire of 
Bavarian melodies. My zither attracted great 
attention, and the old family Bible would 
usually be brought down and the drawing 

mighty crash, and cried, M Nay, verdommt,dats 
geen Psaum, dats een yedelpijp I ?5 (No, d- n 
it, that's no hymn, that's a hornpipe 1 '") This 
time, assisted by the ladies of the household, 
I persuaded him that it was an Italian hymn. 
After that he subsided, and we eventually 
came away well provided with butter, milk, 
and eggs. 

I have a vivid recollection of a curious 

THE AUTHUK J'LAYlMO Jili Z11HHK IN A BUfctt >" A ttMHul Mi. 

of David's harp compared with it, Of course, 
my reward consisted of batter, milk, eggs, 
and fresh bread— if it was baking day. The 
older Boers are generally very scrupulous 
about keeping the Sabbath, and once we 
came to a (arm cm Sunday morning. 
My friend at once tried to open nego- 
tiations for an impromptu musical perform 
ance in exchange for provisions. But it 
was only when my companion urged the 
identity of my zither with Israels harp that 
ihe head of the family would consent to have 
it brought up to the house. When I had 
tuned it up he insisted that nothing should 
be played upon it but hymns. So 1 played 
for him the " Blu? Danube" waltz. I allayed 
his surprise by describing it as a French 
hymn. He was a good deal puzzled, mutter 
ing that it might well be, but that it didn't 
sound like a hymn. I followed this up with 
■* II Bacio," whereupon the old gentleman 
sprang up, struck his hand on the table with a 

Vol xtxvii.— 26 

snake stone which I first saw in j 87 5. I 
was then travelling with an interior trader, 
who carried me to the farm or an old Boer 
named De Lange. He was the possessor of 
the marvellous stone, which be kept carefully 
packed away in cotton- wool in a small box 
which was in an old desk, always under lock 
and key. He attributed to it wondrous 
virtues, and would not part with it for any 
consideration. My companion offered him 
fifty pounds, but in vain. It appears that it 
had saved the lives of so many people and 
horses; amongst others, the daughter of an 
elephant - hunter named Anthony Fortman, 
who had been bitten by a cobra when a 
child. I heard a great deal about this stone, 
and had its powers attested very fully. 

Almost at the beginning oT my hunting 
career a companion untowardly ignited some 
powder, which exploded, and I was badly 
burned all over the neck and face. In par- 
ticular, my bj^in^fSSttlnostrils suffered so 




severely that I did not recover for some time. 
But this was not the worst of my early ex- 
perie nces, for, after having been thrown from 
my horse in the course of my first giraffe 
hunt, I was lost in the veld, and spent four 
days and three nights without either food or 
water. Nothing but an exceptionally strong 
constitution could have seen me through this 
very trying ordeal. On a later occasion, when 
again chasing a turd of giraffes, my horse fell 
and rolled on me, cracking the tibia of my 
right leg in such a way that some of the 
serum must have exuded from the bone, on 
which it formed a permanent lump. This 
accident lamed 
me for .some 

One of my 
earliest adven- 
tures — it was as 
far back as 1874 
— was with a 
buffalo. I had 
twice attempted 
to fire at an old 
buffalo bull 
which 1 was pur- 
suing on horse- 
hru;k, and twice 
my old muzzle 
loading gun had 
misled fire. I 
had just pulled 
in my horse for 
a third shot 
when the bull suddenly charged, with his 
nose stretched straight out and his horns 
laid back, uttering short, angry grunts. 
He was upon me in a moment ; I fired full 
in his face, but my bullet must have passed 
over his back, and in another moment, 
lowering his head and striking upwards, he 
threw both horse and rider into the air. 
He then slopped dead, and I fell in a 
sitting position on the ground just in front 
of him. After eyeing me for a moment 
he came at me. I threw myself as flat 
as possible along the ground, and fortunately 
only received a severe blow with the round 
part of the old bull's horn and a kick on the 
leg from one of his feet* Except that my 
shoulder was badly bruised, I was not other- 
wise hurt. After turning to look at me again 
my assailant galloped off. As for my poor 
horse, he was so terribly injured that I was 
obliged to put him out of his misery. 

Up to the year 1888 my narrow escapes 
were entirely from wild animals, but in that 
year I had a very uncomfortable experience 

Prom a Photo, fcy tfrt?. Xtimrt Mst. 

at the hands of the Mashukulurnbwi, a tribe 
of natives living along the course of the 
Kafukwi River 1 was then on an expedition to 
the Garanganze country, where I hoped to find 
plenty of elephants. I had no white man with 
me, but was accompanied by a Natal Zulu 
named Paul and a boy named Charley, who 
could speak Dutch. Besides these two men 
I had some two dozen raw Zambesi boys as 
porters and sixteen pack donkeys. In due 
course I reached the country inhabited by 
the Mashukulurnbwi, at that time a very wild 
and savage race of people. The men wore 
no clothing whatever, but every one of them 

carried from four 
to eight horribly- 
barbed assegais. 
On the evening 
of the day after 
my arrival at 
Minenga's our 
fires were lighted, 
and we lay down 
to sleep beside 
our donkeys and 
our baggage. 
About nine 
o'clock, as I was 
lying under my 
blanket, 1 
observed a man 
come cautiously 
around the end 
of our scherm 
and pass quickly 
down the line of smouldering fires. As he 
passed me I recognised him as one of our 
guides from Monad's. He knelt down close 
beside me on Paul's blankets, and I heard 
him whispering to him excitedly. Paul then 
said to Charley, "Tell our master what this 
man says ; wake him up." 

I at once said, " What is it, Charley ? I 
am awake/' He answered that our guide 
had told them that all the women and child- 
ren had left the village, and that he thought 
something was wrong. Quickly pulling on 
my shoes and a very thin coat, and buckling 
my cartridge-belt— in which, however, there 
were only four cartridges — round my waist, I 
at once ordered my boys to extinguish all 
the fires. This was immediately done by 
throwing sand on the embers, and I was just 
leaning across my blankets to get some more 
cartridges when three guns went off almost 
in my face, and several more at different 
points around the scherm. The muz/les 
of all thes~ puns; were within our scherm 




assailants must have crawled right up to 

the back of our camp and fired through 

the interstices between the maize-stalks, of 

whkh the fence behind us was formed. The 

three shots that were let off just in front of 

me were doubtless intended for Paul, Charley, 

and myself, but luckily none of us were hit 

M Into the grass ! " I called out to them in 

Dutch, and reached for my rifle. As I did 

so a perfect shower of barbed javelins came 

pattering thickly on the large leather bags in 

which my belongings were packed. At the 

same time a band of Mashukulumbwi rushed 

through the camp, no doubt stabbing some 

of my boys as they did so. 

It was in vain I tried to get a shot into 
one of our treacherous assailants 3 for in the 
darkness it was impossible to distinguish 
friend from foe. Three times I had my rifle 
to my shoulder to fire at a Mashukulumbwi, 
and as often someone whom I thought was 

and then made a rush for the long grass, 
which I reached without mishap, and in 
which I felt comparatively safe, I presently 
crept forward for about twenty yards, and 
then sat still, listening. Standing up again, 
I saw that the Mashukulumbwi were moving 
about in our canip. It was, however, 
impossible to see anyone with sufficient 
distinctness to get a shot, for whenever one 
of the partially-extinguished fires commenced 
to burn up again it was at once put out by 
having more sand thrown over it. 

But I now thought no more of firing at 
them. I had had time to realize the full 
horror of my position, A solitary English- 
man, alone in Central Africa, in the middle 
of a hostile country, without blankets or any- 
thing else but what he stood in, and a rifle 
with four cartridges. I doubt whether Mark 
Tapley himself would have seen anything 
cheerful in the situation. Presently I com- 

From it Photo, fry 0»?ft. .Yoprti?*, JM, 

one of my own boys came between. I was 
within ten yards of the long grass, but with 
my back to it, when, with a yell, another 
detachment of Mashukulumbwi rushed out 
of it to cut off our retreat 

At this juncture I tripped and fell over 
hack wards, upsetting two of our assailants, 
one of whom kicked me in the ribs and fell 
over my body, whilst the other fell over my 
l^s. I was on my feet again in an instant, 

menced to creep about in the long grass, now 
and again whistling softly in the hope of 
coming across one of my own boys, but I 
soon came to the conclusion that all of my 
own people who had escaped death were 
utilising the hours of darkness to put as 
great a distance between themselves and their 
assailants as possible, and I resolved to do 
the same.. I determined to first cross the 
little river behind Minenea's kraal and then 




make south for Monzfs, but when I slowly 
approached the ford I found that it was 
being watched. Cautiously retreating, I 
made my way some distance down the 
river, where the water was deep, running 
between high, steep banks. Here, no 
doubt, there were many crocodiles, but I 
had to get across. I first stripped in 
order to keep my clothes dry, and, having 
tied them together with my shoes into a 
bundle and left it on the bank, I slipped 
quietly into the water, holding my rifle and 
cartridge-belt above my head in my left hand. 

four hours, I resolved to shoot an antelope 
and make a meal off the meat Having only 
four cartridges to keep myself in food whilst 
traversing the three hundred miles of country 
that separated me from my wagon at 
Panda inatenka, I hesitated to risk a shot so 
early in my journey, hut getting an easy 
chance at a wildebeest, just as it was growing 
dusk, I killed it on the spot After lighting a 
fire and roasting as much meat as I could 
eat, I shouldered all that I could carry and, 
under shelter of the darkness, again resumed 
my journey southwards. My adventures were, 


Being an expert swimmer I had no difficulty 
in carrying my rifle across the deep water 
without getting it wet. Pushing it among the 
reeds on the top of the bank, 1 then recrossed 
the river and brought hack my clothes. I 
soon put on my scanty clothing, and then 
from the top of a large ant-hill saw that the 
Mashukulumbwi had set lire to large bundles 
of dry grass* by the light of which they were 
no doubt dividing my property among them- 
selves. Taking the Southern Cross as my 
guide, I then set out upon a journey which I 
am never likely to forget, 

There were plenty of lions in that country, 
but fortunately I encountered none of these 
animals t though hyenas howled around me 
the whole night through, On the evening of 
the next day, as I had then fasted for twenty- 

however, by no means over, and it was only 
after having had my rifle stolen from roe, and 
having passed through many perils and en- 
dured much hardship, that I at last rejoined 
Ihe remnants of my party fourteen days after 
the attack upon my camp* My boys had 
long given me up as dead, and were mightily 
glad to see me again, dancing round me, 
patting me on the breast, and repeatedly kiss- 
ing my hands* Twelve of my poor followers 
never got back to the Zambesi, and they 
were no doubt killed either on the night of 
the attack on my camp or on the following 
morning. Of the twelve who escaped six 
had been slightly wounded* After rejoin- 
ing the remnants of my party I marched to 
the Zambesi and ultimately reached Panda^ 

^t^B^'^CTlteft 10 * ** lhere 



was no means of recovering the sixteen 
donkeys and all the valuable property I had 
lost in the Mashukulumbwi country, I had 
perforce to give up all idea of getting to 
Garenganzeland that year, and after a visit 
to Lewanika, the chief of the Barotsi, I 
returned to the Transvaal early in 1889. 

Never can a South African hunter behold 
elephants without experiencing intense excite- 
ment. YVh^n elephant-hunting, one seldom 
comes up with the animals without having 
followed them for several hours, an 1 as a 
rule it is a pursuit which entails great hard- 
ships, fatigue, thirst, and exposure to the 
intense heat of the tropical sun. On one 
occasion, however, I had come up with 
elephants without having endured privation 
or hardship of any kind. It was a pure stroke 
of luck, and in many ways never before had 
I had such a chance of doing a good 
day's work with these animals. There was 
an immense herd of them before me — 
numbering, probably, nearer two hundred 
than one hundred— and for some miles all 
round the forests were fairly open. 1 had 
also a good little rifle and seventy cartridges. 
My bodily weakness, the result of fever, was 
certainly much against me, but what militated 
more against my success that day than any- 
thing else was the obstinacy of my horse, 
whose disposition I was soon to find out. 
Even to-day, as I think of this episode in my 
hunting career, I cannot but lament and rail 
at fate when I recall what I did and what 
I might have done that day had I but had 
my good horse Nelson between my knees. 

I first picked out a big bull that towered 
above the surrounding cows and fired a steady 
shot for his lungs. Just as I did so a tuskless 
cow charged me, screaming loudly, and I was 
obliged to retreat. 

In vain I spurred my horse, but it was one 
of his sulky days and he absolutely would not 
gallop. I had a very narrow escape, but 
dodged the old cow round a large ant-heap, 
the wind being luckily in my favour. I then 
rode back to the herd and killed the next 
biggest bull I could see, and soon afterwards, 
whilst following on the tracks of the retreating 
elephants, which had now broken up into 
many small herds, I came suddenly face to 
face with a large cow coming straight towards 

The forest was very open about here, and 
she saw me as soon as I saw her, and, raising 
her head and spreading her ears, charged 
forthwith, screaming loudly. Turning my 
horse, I galloped away from her, but though 
quite fresh he would not put out any pace, 

and I could tell from the screams that the 
elephant was gaining rapidly upon me. 

Hastily turning my head, I saw she was 
getting very near, and knew she would soon 
catch me, so I resolved to dismount and run 
for some rocks just ahead of me. My horse 
was in some respects a perfect shooting horse, 
and immediately I leant forward and seized 
his mane he stopped dead. I was off and in 
front of him in an instant, and running for 
the rocks, which were not twenty yards away. 
As I got round the first rock I turned, and 
this is what I saw ! The horse was standing 
absolutely still, with his head up and his 
fore feet planted firmly in the ground, as 
if carved in stone, and the elephant, which 
had then ceased to scream, and was making 
a curious rumbling noise, was standing along- 
side of him, smelling about with her trunk. 
In front of my saddle was tied a leather coat 
with a red flannel lining— a present the pre 
ceding year from my friend Montagu Kerr — 
and I suppose that the elephant must have 
touched the horse with her trunk, as he 
suddenly gave a jump round, throwing the 
red-lined coat into the air. 

He then walked slowly to the rocky ridge 
behind him, and again stood still about 
fifteen yards away from the elephant. All 
this time I had been afraid to fire, for fear of 
exasperating the elephant and causing it to 
kill my horse. 

I now, however, determined to shoot her, 
and was thinking of firing for her brain, for 
she was very near me, when she raised her 
head and ears and came towards the rocks 
screaming like & railway engine ' She must 
have got my wind, I fancy, suddenly. How- 
ever, she could not get at me without going 
round some smaller rocks, and as she did this 
she gave me a splendid chance for a heart 
shot at a distance of not more than fifteen 
yards. I fired into the centre of her shoulder, 
and immediately the bullet struck her she 
stopped screaming and, dropping her ears, 
swerved off. She ran only a hundred yards 
or so, and then fell over dead, shot through 
the large blood-vessels of the upper part of 
the heart. Directly she fell I ran to my 
horse and remounted. Prudence whispered 
to me to give up the hunt, but I could not 
make up my mind to do so just yet, though 
I resolved to be cautious and not go too near 
the elephants in future, as my horse had 
evidently not the slightest fear of them, and 
had made up his mind that nothing should 
induce him to really gallop out this day. It 
was not that hz could not do so; he was 
simply sulky, as he had a very good turn of 



speed when he cared to exert himself. Had 
I been in good health and mounted on a 
better horse, I am sure 1 should have killed 
all the biggest tuskers in this large herd of 
elephants. As it was I only killed six of 

In 1 88 1 circumstances inclined me to give 
up hunting and go in for ostrich-farming, 
but after a short experience on a friend's 
ostrich-farm near Port Elizabeth it seemed 
to me that ostrich farming had passed the 
meridian of its prosperity, so I resolved once 
more to make my living by hunting. I had 
obtained many orders from the British and 
Cape museums, as well as from a London 
dealer, for specimens, preserved for mounting, 
of all the large African fauna. I therefore at 
once fitted out another expedition and started 
for Mashonaland, travelling slowly by night 
during the hot weather so as to save my 
bullocks as much as possible, and hunting 
and collecting specimens of natural history, 
from antelopes to butterflies, during the day- 
time. One day, whilst walking along the 
banks of the Crocodile River, I thought 
I heard a kind of moaning noise, and 
pushing my way through the scrub which 
here clothed the bank I found one of my 
best oxen with his fore-leg stuck fast in the 
mud and the rest of his body under water. 
A huge crocodile, that had been tearing at 
the poor animal and inflicting the most ex- 
cruciating torture upon him, rushed away 
through the water at my approach and 
vanished. We soon got our poor ox out with 
the help of two other oxen, a yoke, and chain, 
and I then discovered that, large as he was, 
weighing quite a thousand pounds, he had 
been taken between the jaws of a monster 
crocodile and bitten severely in the belly 
and near the root of the tail. I syringed out 
the wounds with strong carbolic lotion, while 
my companion went down to watch for the 
reappearance of the crocodile. He presently 
got a shot at the ugly head of a very large 
one and thought he hit it, but one does not 
often recover a crocodile shot in deep water, 
as they sink to the bottom and do not rise for 
some days. In spite of all my efforts my 
poor ox swelled up to a great size and died 
three days later. My opinion is that his 
kidneys had been injured by the teeth of the 

During that season, although I usually 
never had fewer than ten dogs with me in the 
hunting veld, I had only three, one of whom 
was a general favourite named Blucher. He 
was an excellent watch-dog, very plucky, 
and altogether one of the best of his 

kind I ever saw in Africa. One night, when 
I had set a gun for hyenas, I tied up the 
dogs in order that they should not get into 
trouble. I had scarcely finished supper 
when the set gun, heavily laden with a 
charge of slugs, went off with a loud report. 
We all rushed out, but could find no trace of 
any slaughtered hyena, so, thinking that a 
jackal had seized the bait and exploded the 
gun without receiving the charge, I did not 
reset it and let the dogs loose. I had just 
turned in to sleep when Blucher and the 
puppies began a furious barking in the 
distance, the sound drawing nearer and 
nearer. I asked one of my men what he 
thought the dogs were barking at. He 
replied in Dutch, "Sir, it must be a lion. 
Blucher would not retreat like that before a 
hyena." Suddenly Blucher's deep bark ceased 
and some heavy animals came galloping past 
us in the open ground between my camp 
and the stream below, while at the same 
moment the two puppies rushed in between 
our legs. Blucher, it w r as clear, had met his 
death, killed by a lion. As he had not even 
given a yelp when he was caught, 1 concluded 
he had been seized by the head and killed 
instantaneously. Two of my Matabele boys, 
who slept on the other side of the kraal, now f 
came running in to say that some animal 
was crunching bones on the other side of the 
camp, and others came with torches, crying 
" Shumba, Shumba ! Lion, lion ! The lion 
has caught the big dog ! " Whereupon I 
took my double-barrelled ten-bore rifle, 
which I had in the wagon, and went over to 
the native camp, but could see nothing, as 
the night was very dark. 

Later on in the night one or other of the 
lions came inside my camp on three separate 
occasions, and each time carried off the skin 
of a large antelope. On one of these occa- 
sions one of the lions came quite close to 
where two of my Kaffirs were sitting by their 
fire and carried off the skin of a sable ante- 
lope I had shot that day. I had several 
shots at them in the dark, and went after 
them immediately it got light, but they 
eluded me. Of my wet sable antelope skins 
only a few leg bones remained, while of poor 
Blucher not a fragment could be found. 
That day I spent setting guns, and about 
sundown I heard one of the Kaffirs call 
out, " Here's the big dog," and, running 
out, saw, to my intense astonishment, poor 
Blucher, whom I had mourned as dead, 
coming up slowly from the river. His flank 
was torn open and he had several wounds 

in thi 

nevertheless, he 


ed his tail 



feebly. My idea is the lion had seized him by 
the oeck, but the loose skin slipping up, he 
had only made four holes through his hide, 
and perhaps, when the lion opened his mouth 
to get a better hold, Blucher managed to make 
his escape, getting gashed by a claw as he 
did so, I immediately syringed out his 
wounds and sewed him up. But although he 
lived for some time he was never himself 
again, growing thinner and thinner, refusing 
his food, and at last dying a mere bag of bones. 
In March, 1895, I went to South Africa 
for the last time to assist in the management 

with only two cartridges in my belt, and a 
large number of Kaffirs on three sides of me, 
Had it not been for the bravery of a Mr. 
Windley, who came to my assistance, I should 
never have got away on that occasion, The 
bullets struck up the ground all around us, 
one knocking the heel of my companion's boot 
off + Had the Matabele only managed to shoot 
a little better, or had they had the luck to hit 
the horse, they would have got both of us. 

At first I had no time to mount, but ran 
alongside my friend's horse, holding on to 
the thong round its neck. After getting a 


f*o*i a rhuta. bv\ in this aktjcle)> [#k>. JfanmL ltd. 

of a land and gold - mining company in 
Matatx ldand* In the following year, on the 
outbreak of the epidemic of rinderpest, 1 
was appointed cattle inspector for the district 
between the Umzingwani and Insiza rivers. 
Shortly afterwards, in March, 1896, the 
Matabele rebellion broke out T and many of 
the Colonists — men* women, and children — 
were murdered, During the progress of the 
operations for the suppression of the rebellion 
I had some narrow escapes. On one occasion* 
having somewhat incautiously galloped far 
ahead of the contingent of Cape boys 
that I was leading, my horse was grazed 
by a bullet just after I had dismounted 
for a shot, and galloped off, leaving me alone 

little way ahead of the pursuing and yelling 
natives I tried to mount him, whereupon the 
animal started to buck and refused to go 
forward, and the Kaffirs, seeing our predica- 
ment, came on with renewed ardour. I 
quickly threw myself from the back of the 
bucking horse,- landing on my own back, 
but without hurting myself or losing my grip 
of my rifle. I was on my legs again very 
quickly, and, once more grasping the thong 
round the horse's neck, he soon carried , or, 
rather, pulled, me out of danger. I look 
upon thus episode in the Matabele rebellion 
as one of my narrowest escapes, and, at any 
rate, it gave me the hardest run I have ever 
had since my etephant-hunting days. 

jWc are indebted to the courtesy of Messrs. Rowland Ward, Limited, 

the illustrations which accompany Mr. Selous's article 


to reproduce two of 


An Episode in the Life of Joan Hardacre, as related by 
Her Friend and Confidant, Roderick Kirlew, 


ES, Joan Hardacre possesses 
the finest collection of portraits 
in all London, but there is 
none which pleases me so 
much as her caricature of the 
You would find it in the little boudoir 

overlooking the garden of her doll's house 

by Regent's Park. There are,- 1 suppose, at 

least a thousand others upon the walls 

of that sanctum in miniature, but none 

which amuses me so much as that of the 

truly ferocious 

black man who 

leers at you from 

a gilt-edged frame. 

And she prizes it, 

even as she prizes 

the poorest and 

meanest of her 

photographs — 

even that of the 

baby faced boy of 

eleven who bur- 
gled a house in 

Essex and carried 

hence a silver 


We were having 

tea together on a 

hot July afternoon 

when the portrait 

of the nigger came 

Joan herself, 

her flaxen hair 

banded in the 

American fashion 

— such a petite) 

methodical, laugh- 
ing little body— 

lay engulfed in a 

monstrous arm- 

" Who sent you 

the original?" I 

asked her 

She answered 

with the teapot in 

her hand. " Martin 

of St. Louis," 

"Of course, the American police knew 

M Of course they did. He's called ' Happy 
Sam of Sardis/" 

"And you let him slip through your 
fingers, Joan ? " 

I should not have said it, for Joan can be 
very angry when she chooses. More than 
once have I seen her put a roomful of men 
to shame, and with but a single word spoken. 

"Talk sense, Rody," she said; "if you 
don't want to talk it, go away." 




Do you 
when we 

" I am not going away, Joan ; I intend to 
remain and talk about the nigger. Why did 
you draw htm in profile?" 

" Because it is the only position which is 
worth anything at all — when I wish to know 
him again." 

" Do the photographers agree with you?" 

" I don't care whether they do or not. I 
am not working to please the photographers." 

4< Come, don't be angry. The drawing is 
a triumph. You should send a copy to 
Leslie Waters." 

" He would be afraid of it. 
remember what a state he was in 
went down there ? " 

"Of course I do— and the dog he had 
hired. It bit him to begin with, and half the 
village afterwards." 

We laughed together and then fell to 
silence a little while. The nigger's story — 
for I always call it his story — ran through 
my head like a flash as I watched her. How 
clever she had been ! No criminal lawyer in 
Ixmdon could have done better ; but, then, 
was not Joan the daughter of the late John . 
Hardacre, the cleverest Old Bailey advocate 
that his generation had known— and might 
she not herself have earned a living as a 
professional detective instead of being, as 
she was, an amateur who only acted for the 
benefit of her friends and for love of* the 
game ? 

" I suppose," said I, after a pause, " that 
you did not wish to arrest him, Joan?" 

" You supi>ose quite correctly, Rody." 

" Meaning that his turn will come by and 

" Meaning a lot of things — and, firstly, that 
you are to cut me some more plum cake." 

I cut her a giant chunk, for thus were her 
tastes. Joan Hardacre could eat cake and 
chocolate caramels all day, I believe. I re- 
membered perfectly well that her consumption 
of both had been prodigious upon that July 
afternoon, just eleven months ago, when Leslie 
Waters invited me — mt, if you please — to run 
over on my bicycle and see him on a matter 
of some urgency. And it was nothing but an 
accident which took Joan there at all. 

I had been staying with her married sister, 
l-ady Cunninghame, who has the little red 
house on the river-bank just by the finishing 
post at Henley. Joan came down from 
London on the day following my arrival, and 
for ten days after that we never deserted the 
oJd punt save at meal-times and midnight, 
and not always then. She was very tired, 
not a little irritable, and altogether difficult to 
please. Her own account of it was that she 

Digitized by LiOOQ l£ 

had been doing nothing, "and that, my dear 
Rody," she would say, " is the most difficult 
thing to do, unless you have the mind of a 
poodle-dog." I told her not to be personal, 
and sulked just for a quarter of an hour. It 
is quite impossible to sulk any longer when . 
Joan is -about. 

Leslie Waters, you should know, lives just 
below Temple Lock, in the old cottage 
which was a great place when the mock 
monks of St. Francis were at Medmenham. 
Someone described his house as all 
"corners and creepers," and that's not a 
bad account of it. I suppose he saw Joan 
and me upon the river, and found out that I 
was staying with her relatives. When I 
showed her his letter as an excuse for an 
afternoon o , she insisted upon accompany- 
ing me, despite my protest. 

" My dear man," she asked, " do you 
suppose for a minute that Mr. Waters wants 
you ? " 

44 But, Joan, what do you mean ? Doesn't 
he ask for me ? " 

"Of course he does, understanding per- 
fectly well that I shall see the letter and 
come with you. My father knew him in- 
timately. Now go and get the skiff out. 
When a man says ' urgent/ he means some- 
thing unpleasant Of course I am going." 

I never said a word to this, but got the 
skiff out immediately. It was then about 
four o'clock in the afternoon, and well after 
five when we pulled up at Leslie's house and 
he came down the lawn to meet us. Some 
men would have been huffy at his reception 
of Joan, for I must say that he talked to her 
a long time before he said a word to me ; but 
I am always proud of the esteem she has 
won for herself, and very glad to play second 
fiddle in that band. 

" What's up, old chap ? " I asked him 
presently. " Has your heroine fallen into 
the river, or is the tenor gone over to Daly's ? 
I suppose it's a musical row ? " 

" Nothing of the sort," he answered, 
sharply. " It's a nigger, and I wish to tell 
Miss Hardacre all about him." 

"Then why didn't you say so straight 

He patted me on the back to calm me 

" Don't be offended, Rody ; I knew her 
father well, but she didn't know me, and I 
thought it the better way. You were bound 
to tell her, you know — you never keep 
anything to yourself. Now come into the 
arbour and we'll have some tea. I'm sure 
you've earned it," 

Original from 



Well, we went 
and had tea with 
him, and so full 
was he of his story 
that he ate up all 
the maids of 
honour before 
anyone else had 
a chance, and had 
half finished the 
greengage jam 
before I started 
upon it. 

st It began about 
a month ago, 3 ' he 
said. li I was sit- 
ting in my study 
and just thinking 
about going up to 
dress for dinner 
when my secre- 
tary, Miss Benson, 
came running in 
to tell me that 
there was an awful 
man id the hall 
and that he would 
not go away. Of 
course, I was out 
in a jiffy, though 
I am the worst 
coward in Europe 
over tackling 
Strange men, and 
I didn't like the 
job at all I liked 
it even less when 
I found myself 
face to face with 
the biggest nigger 
I have ever 
clapped eyes 
upon, and the 
ugliest, I give you 
my word that the 
fellow was a mon- 
ster, with a terrific 
head and a broken 
nose, which to see 
was never to forget. 
What was worse, 
he stood some six feet three in his stockings, 
and I knew that if he as much as put out his 
hand I should go over, 

" * What do you want?' I asked him, 
* Why have you come here? 1 

" To my astonishment he answered me in 
a soft, lisping voice which might have come 
from the lips of a woman. 

Digitized by Google 



" 1 1 beg your pardon, Mr Waters/ he 
said ; ' know you very well, sir—remember 
all the gentlemen at Holies Street — Sam was 
porter there, sir— he carry the music home to 
you very often sometimes.' 

"I was greatly relieved at this, although 
I never remembered to have seen the man 

in Mt>1 Hi|iWfroiTi ere ' by the way ' my 



publishers, Estelle and Company, have their 
offices. The nigger's manner did not suggest 
either the beggar's whine or the impostor's 
lament. He spoke with great deference and 
stooped while he spoke, perhaps to spare me 
the fearsome apparition of his full height. 

" 'Well/ I asked him, 'and what can I do 
for Sam ? ' 

"'A very little thing, sir. Sam out of 
work — he came down here to sing at the 
regatta, sir. All the gentlemen give him 
nothing ; the ladies, they give halfpennies. 
Can't live on halfpennies, sir, and Sam wants 
to go back to London.' 

" ' Oh,' said I, ' that's it, then. You want 
to borrow your fare ? ' 

" He grinned all over his terrible face and 
said that I was the very kindest gentleman 
he had ever met in all his life. As you 
know, the third-class fare from Henley to 
London is a matter of a few shillings, and I 
gave it to him as cheerfully as ever I gave 
any man anything in all my life." 

At this moment Leslie paused to sip his 
tea, and Joan, who had been listening with 
her eyes half closed, asked him a question 
which was very obvious. 

"What did Estelles say, Mr. Waters?" 

"Oh, my publishers? Well, you see, I 
never asked them until the other day. It 
was such a trifling matter, and the man was 
so civil." 

She nodded her head and half closed her 
eyes again. Leslie, I thought, continued 
with some hesitation now. I could see that 
the episodes of which he had to speak were 
no pleasant reminiscence. 

" I had forgotten the nigger when he came 
a second time. A fortnight passed, when 
one day, as I was cycling out from Henley, I 
met the fellow standing right in the middle 
of the road, and evidently determined to 
speak to me. Perhaps I should have ridden 
on and dodged him. I did not do so 
because, frankly, I was afraid of him. This 
time his story was but little changed. He said 
that he had lost the last train from Henley 
on the night I gave him the five shillings, and 
had to spend the money on drink and a bed. 
He never disguised his peccadilloes. He had 
drunk some of the money away, and knew 
he had done wrong. 

" ' Black man same as white man,' he said, 
quite cheerfully ; ' when the rum go down, 
the spirit go up. Very sorry, Mr. Waters, 
but all the gentlemen at Holies Street very 
kind to me. I shall not ask for money, sir. 
Happy Sam of Sardis never do that, sir." 

" It ended by my giving him a shilling and 

Digitized by GoOglC 

being warmly thanked. The fellow's manner 
was so genial that I could not be suspicious 
of him. Perhaps my first real doubt occurred 
when I met him the following evening just at 
the entrance to the Fair Mile at Henley. I 
had been talking to a member of the Leander 
Club, and was about to mount my bicycle 
when Happy Sam of Sardis appeared. As 
usual, he began by protesting that he would 
perish sooner than beg ; but he ended by 
carrying away two shillings triumphantly, and 
disappeared immediately in the direction of 
the river. 

" I should tell you that this persistency 
annoyed me. The nigger's appearance was 
so alarming that his very presence in the 
neighbourhood of Henley made me uneasy. 
And this was not all. I began to suspect, 
from what the servants told me, that he was 
haunting the vicinity of my house. In the 
end I did what I should have done at the 
beginning — that is, I wrote to Estelles and 
asked if they had ever had a nigger in their 
employment. The answer came immediately. 
It was a point-blank negative. 

"So, you see, Happy Sam was an impostor 
after all ; and I hear you already asking how 
I could trouble you about so trivial a matter. 
Under ordinary circumstances I grant it would-- 
be trivial. The nigger never threatened me, 
never begged of me in the common way, and 
seemed altogether a harmless lout who had 
told a few simple lies to earn a few shillings. 
This I admit. What I do not like is the 
sequel, and it is the sequel I am now about 
to show to you." 

He took a shabby letter from his pocket 
and passed it across the tea-table to Joan. 
Sitting at her side, she permitted me to look 
over her shoulder and to read the letter with 
her, and I observed that the document was 
written upon half a sheet of well-thumbed 
note-paper, and addressed from a public-house 
near Acton. 

" Sir," it went, " I would like to see you 
immediately upon business' which can't be 

Well, we both read the letter twice and 
then I passed it back to Leslie. 

If you had judged Joan by her manner you 
would have thought that the whole affair had 
ceased to interest her. I don't think she 
asked a single question. She told me after- 
wards that she knew perfectly well that I 
would ask the questions for her. 

" What did you say, Leslie ? " I inquired 

" Oh, I said nothing — I put letters of that 
kind into the waste-paper basket." 




" But you say that it worries you ? " 

"Yes, it does; I fear there is something 
behind it. The envelope was one of 

Joan moved in her chair. I thought she 
was laughing. 

" Oh, come," said I, " you are going to 
tell Estelles' about it, surely ? Isn't it fair 
to them?" 

" I shall mention it to Mr. Richards, the 
senior partner, when I see him. If I do 
answer the letter, the men will get it hot." 

" Men ! Are there many in it ? " 

" There must be. The nigger has been 
here all the time, and this letter comes from 

"If you take my advice," said I, " you will 
answer civilly and ask the writer to come 
here. Why not set a trap for him ? " 

Well, we argued it furiously, and finally he 
consented. It was at this point that Joan 

" I'll post the letter for you," said she. 
"It must get there to-morrow afternoon." 

" Why afternoon ? " 

" Because Rody is not going to London 

"Oh, but I'm not going at all, Joan." 

" Yes, you are, Rody ; you are going by 
the first train in the morning." 

And so she told us that she had been 
listening after all. Leslie Waters was as 
pleased as Punch about it, and told her so ; 
but she answered him evasively, and I still 
thought her uninterested. It was not until 
we were back in the skiff together that I 
discovered how greatly I had been mistaken. 

" Well," I exclaimed, " are we going 
straight home ? " 

" We are going to the telegraph office as 
fast as we can get there." 

" Do you believe it's serious ? " 

She looked me straight in the face. 

u So serious, my dear Rody, that if Leslie 
Waters had the brains of a bird he would be 
afraid to sleep ifi his own house to-night." 

I held my tongue at this — a man cannot 
row and converse at the same time, and her 
mood was not loquacious. To be candid, I 
also had been alarmed by Leslie's confession, 
and understood how much it might mean. 
She, I could see, was hard at work thinking, 
and when Joan thinks she hears no man, 
woman, or child. Indeed, she never opened 
her mouth again until we were inside the 
post-office at Henley. 

"Where are Mack and Mike?" she asked 


Now, Mack and Mike are two old soldiers 

Digitized by Ot 

who were with me in the 17th Lancers, 
and are still a faithful bodyguard which I 
employ upon many occasions. Mack is a 
huge man, who has had the misfortune to lose 
an eye ; Mike is a substantial Irishman of 
shorter stature, but amazing wit and cunning. 

"They would be at the Albany," said I, 
answering Joan. 

"Then let them meet us at Paddington 
to-morrow — meet you, rather, for I am going 
up by a later train." 

"And what are they to do when they 
meet me ? " 

" They are to go as fast as they can to the 
Blue Boy, near Acton railway station on the 
Great Western line, where they will follow 
the man who calls for this letter which I 
am about to direct and to put into a blue 

The letter was the one which Leslie Waters 
had just written at my dictation. I saw her 
put it in a big blue envelope, which she 
bought at a little shop not far from the post- 
office— but she did not drop it into the 
letter-box, and it was posted at Paddington 
station early next morning. To whom she 
sent her telegrams I do not know, but one of 
them occupied her attention for a full ten 
minutes. VVhen she had finished and dis- 
patched it her mind seemed at rest, and we 
walked back to Lady Cunninghame's house, 
talking anything but music and the nigger. 
Such, I may say, is Joan's habit. She works 
in strenuous spells ; but when she is not 
working, no child of twelve could play as 

I am of a different turn, and never does 
one of her cases get into my head but I think 
of it perpetually. Candidly, I do not think 
I slept a couple of hours together that night, 
but woke up from time to time with the 
nightmare of a nigger's face for my com- 
panion and a morbid fear that the fellow 
might already have turned his attentions to 
us. It was a positive relief to get up at five 
o'clock and hurry off to catch the first train 
to town. My men met me at Paddington 
and received their instructions with some 
pleasure. They knew that Joan was behind 
the affair ; they have helped her too often to 
be ignorant of the fact. 

When I told them that their journey would 

carry them to a public-house in Acton, where 

they were to wait for someone who would 

call for a letter in a blue envelope and to 

follow him, the little man's face broadened 

perceptibly, while the giant Mack looked as 

though he had never drunk a glass of beer in 

his life, ^ ■ 

Original from 




"And what sort av a man are we to find ?" 
asked Mike. 

" Ye slip of a thundering fool," says Mack, 
" isn't that what the captain would have us to 
discover ? " 

I told them that it was, and sent them off 
immediately. They were to return to my 
rooms in the Albany should they have any 
news, and not to stir thence until I came 
back. These instructions they carried out 
faithfully, but it was eleven o'clock at night 
before I saw them again. 

"Well?" I asked. 

" The letter was fetched at nine o'clock, 
sir," says Mack. 

" By a whipper-snapper of a man with a 
game arm and blue glasses," adds Mike. 

"You followed him?" 

"To a house in Chelsea— 39, Grove Road 
— where he was met by a nigger chap with a 
broken nose." 

"Ah! And then?" 

"And then we followed each other back 
to this house," says Mike, with a laugh, 
while Mack added that those had been my 

I praised the men for their diligence, tell- 
ing them that I should have need of them 
very early in the morning, and then dismiss- 
ing them to their beds. Of course, I had to 
carry the news to Joan. She would forgive 
no delay, whatever the hour, and I was 
grateful to the nocturnal habits of her brother 
Walter, who lives with her, and rarely goes to 
bed before three o'clock in the morning. 
When I arrived at her house she was in the 
boudoir, reading Maurice Hewlett's last novel, 
but I knew that she was very pleased to see 

"Well," she cried, "the letter was fetched, 
then ? " 

" It was fetched at nine o'clock to night." 

" By a queer little man who carried one 
arm in a sling and wore pince-nez? " 

" You were there yourself, Joan." 

" Nothing of the kind ; I have not left the 
house since dinner. Now, sit down, Rody, and 
be sensible. There is much for you to do." 

I obeyed her like a child. It is always 
futile to question Joan, and she will speak in 
her own good time. To-night I found her 
both vivacious and singularly well pleased 
with herself. She had half filled a single 
sheet of note-paper with minute lines of 
writing, and this she now passed over to me. 

"If I may judge by their pictures, and 
there is no other way of judging," she went 
on, " we are dealing with two very dangerous 
men, One is a bully and the other an 

adventurer. The bully works by day, the 
adventurer by night ; but he is more dan- 
gerous than the other. Now, listen to me 
very carefully. We must all be at Henley 
by to-morrow night. Mack and Mike are to 
go there in your car to-morrow morning. 
You and I will go down by the afternoon 
train, and then take the launch from my 
aunt's house. If I should not be at the 
station when you get there, go on without me, 
but act as though I had come. Mr. Waters 
has his own instructions. If he is a wise 
man he will obey them ; if he is not wise — 
well, that is his misfortune. I can tell you 
no more to-night, Rody, and you will not be 
cross. You know that I usually go to bed 
at ten o'clock." 

I knew that she did, and I was in no mood 
myself to sit up with her brother Walter dis- 
cussing motor-cars and the " cut approach " 
at golf. Indeed, I slept soundly that night, 
and had so much to do in town next day 
that, beyond sending Mack and Mike to 
Henley as she wished, I could take no part 
in the case until I arrived at Paddington at 
four o'clock, and found that she had left me 
to make the journey to Henley by myself. 
From this time I carried out her instructions 
implicitly, going on to Leslie's house and 
reporting faithfully to him all I had to tell. 
He, poor man, was in a doleful state. Joan, 
he declared, would tell him nothing. 

" I am not to say a word to the local 
police," he exclaimed, pitifully ; " and all the 
protection she gives me is the great boar- 
hound now chained up in my old dog's 
kennel. What do you make of that, Kirlew ? 
Whatever does it mean, and why should I 
be mixed up with it ? " 

Well, I couldn't tell him. 

"If Joan has sent the hound here," said 
I, "she thinks mighty badly of it. Of 
course, you are to loose him at night — or I 
am, for he knows me. Did she say nothing 
more ? " 

"Not a word. Someone is to call upon 
me at eleven o'clock to-morrow morning, and 
my little motor is to be out in the road ready 
for me. She particularly wishes it to be out 
in the road, and says that she herself will 
give Morton, the driver, his instructions. 
For the rest we are not to interfere, whatever 
harum-scarum we may hear. Frankly, Kirlew, 
I don't like it at all, and I never felt less easy 
in my life." 

I told him not to worry. 

"You know Joan Hardacre," said I, "and 
you are not the first man by a long way she 
has helped out of a mess," 




" But I'm not in a mess, my dear fellow." 

" Which means to say that you are one of 
those happy men who are unaware of their 
own misfortunes. All the more reason why 
you should go to bed and sleep to-night. I 
will tell you more about the case to-morrow 
night, when Joan has told me. There is 
really nothing to prevent us eating a good 
dinner — as you will admit, Leslie." 

He did not see it— no man who is harassed 
to death by a mystery he cannot fathom 
ever does. And Leslie Waters is just one of 
those highly-strung nervous creatures whose 
faculties are paralyzed even by a whisper of 
suspicion. Never, I suppose, did he make a 
more miserable dinner. He tried to play a 
little afterwards, but failed dismally. And 
all the time I was asking myself what kind of 
a scrape it was into which such a seemingly 
immaculate individual had fallen, what folly 
he had committed, and what price he must 
pay for it. 

I shall tell you that we went to bed at 
eleven and passed an adventurous night. 
Frankly, I could not sleep. I was listening, 
not only to the distant church bells chiming 
the hour, but for any sound from Joan's great 
hound, Bismarck, loosed by me at eleven 
and now roaming the gardens. I would 
sooner face a revolver than Joan's hound any 
day — that is, if he were not a friend of mine ; 
and with this thought for my consolation I 
lay listening to the chiming bells. Leslie 
had no such faith in any animal. He was in 
my room at a quarter to one and again at 
half- past. 

"There are men about the place," he said, 

1 told him not to be a fool. 

" But I can hear footsteps — and when I 
looked out of my window just now I heard 
the bushes stirring." 

" The wind, my dear Leslie — remember the 
hound is there ; his ears and eyes are quicker 
than yours." 

He was not convinced, and insisted upon 
smoking a pipe with me, while he suggested 
a hundred solutions to this gathering mystery. 
When he left me, it was to go and mix himself 
another whisky and soda — about the worst 
thing he could have taken at such a time. I 
think I fell asleep for a little while after that, 
and when I woke up the great hound was bay- 
ing furiously and Leslie at my bedside again. 

" Don't you hear them ?" he asked me. 

"Of course I do. Why should we interfere? 
The old dog's barking because he sees some- 
body. He wouldn't know you — you're much 
better here." 

by L^OOgle 

It was no good at all — I foresaw that it 
would not be — and nothing would satisfy 
him but that we must sally forth and search 
the grounds, he with a revolver, while I 
carried an ancient sword which had gone 
into Morocco with the Moors. This part of 
the business was little to my taste. Old 
Bismarck, the hound, knows me well enough 
by daylight, but I was just a little dubious 
whether he would know me as well at night ; 
and, moreover, I^eslie had sketched such a 
vivid portrait of the nigger that I had the 
fellow's ugly face in my mind every step we 
took. These were not many. W r e went 
round the lawns and out to the stable-yard. 
The hound was nowhere to be seen, and it 
was not until we were about to re-enter the 
house that I espied his great hulking shape 
near the landing-stage. Then I called to 
him and he came loping toward me. 

" What is it, Bismarck ? Where are they, 
old boy ? Find them, lad, find them ! " 

For answer the brute pushed his dripping 
jaws into my hand, and stood there wagging 
his tail furiously. Going down with him to the 
water's edge I thought that I heard a distant 
splash of oars, but could not be quite sure of 
it. Leslie called to me from the house, but 
I answered him evasively, and a minute later 
I espied Joan herself, a dark-hooded, shrink- 
ing little figure, standing in the shadow of the 

" Go back," she said, but in so low a tone 
that I could hardly catch her words; "go 
back and keep him in the house. At once, 

Of course, I obeyed her. Leslie himself 
asked me if I had seen anything, and I 
rejoined with a negative. This appeared to 
satisfy him, but he stolidly refused to go tc 
bed and sat in the smoking-room until dawn, 
talking like an hysterical woman, and no more 
wisely. When we both came down to break- 
fast at nine I should imagine no whiter couple 
were to be seen in the county. But we said 
nothing about last night — he because he was 
too excited to think of it, and I because I 
was wondering all the time what Joan had 
been doing in the garden. 

You will remember that the appointment 
with the unknown man was for eleven o'clock. 
We had carried out Joan's instructions very 
faithfully, and Morton, the chauffeur, waited 
with the car a little way from the house, on 
the Marlow side. I need hardly say that 
Mack and Mike were already indoors, and 
quite ready to receive either the bully of a 
nigger or any other who might come along. 
All that could be done had been done, and 






it remained for us to control our excitement 
as much as possible and to let the hour speak 
for itself. As for Leslie, he paced the house 
like a caged beast. I believe that he counted 
every tick of the clock. A boat captain on 
the bank at Cambridge, crying the seconds, 
could not have been more impatient. It 
was, 1 think, precisely at two minutes to 
eleven that he first admitted the egregious 
folly of which I am now to speak— 1 hope 
ralrnly, although it is difficult to do so. 

" I hope Abraham's men are out there, 
he said, suddenly. 

It was just as though he had struck me a 


"Abraham's men! Who the deuce is 

Abraham ? " ..,,., ... » 

** The private detective m Cockspur street. 
* Great Jupiter 1 Did you send for 


Digitized by C-OOQ I C 

" Of course I 
did. Do you sop- 
pose I am going to 
trust my life to a 
woman ? " 

I turned my back 
upon him and 
strode out of the 
house. Oh, the folly 
of it — the mad 
folly ! There in 
the lane were two 
as obvious "private 
inquiry " agents as 
ever I saw in my 
life. And these 
were the wits he 
had pitted against 
a gang of adven- 
turers who would 
recognise the fel- 
lows a mile away, 
I could have 
cried for vexation. 
Where was Joan? 
What would she 
say ? As. to the 
appointment, it was 
an irony to speak 
of it. Who would 
come to a house to 
extort money from 
a man when two 
blundering detec- 
tives sat on his 
doorstep? Incon- 
ceivable folly— and 
irrevocable. Of 
course they would 
not appear— or, if they did appear, their 
advent would bring no dangers upon them. 

I say that I walked down the road as mad 
a man as any in Bucks, Luckily, I had not 
gone more than a hundred yards when I met 
Joan herself at the wheel oF a powerful 
Daimler car, and looking as radiant and as 
happy as a schoolgirl. 

" Don't tell me," she said, " for I know." 
"The fool's engaged private detectives- 
there are two of them labelled on his front 
doorstep. The ass ! The idiot ! " 

"Spare him names, Rody ; he is really 
very useful, poor man. Did you see Morton 
drive off? " 

I looked at her, understanding nothing. 
" Leslie's chauffeur ! Why should he drive 

off? " 

"He has taken your friend, the man with 
the game arm, to Marlow Station/ 1 
Original from 





" Taken him to the station ? " 

" Yes ; but he'll never get there. Morton 
is a clever boy. You must give him a sove- 
reign for me, Rody. He is going to lose the* 
gentleman with the spectacles on Hambledon 
Heath. Now jump in ; we have plenty of 
time, for the train does not leave Twyford 
for nearly an hour." * 

She drew back a light rug to let me get up 
beside her. Of course, I need not dwell upon 
my astonishment ; it is impossible to begin 
any work with Joan which does not end 
in astonishment. Whatever had been her 
motives for concealment last night, there 
were evidently none this morning. We drove 
straight by Leslie's gate, just in time to see 
a prim- looking girl, quietly dressed and 
apparently some eighteen years old, going 
up the drive. 

" There is the lady of the party," she said, 
with a laugh. "The girl will show him some 
music, say that she is in great distress, and 
hint, perhaps, at being a distant relative. 
Clever, my dear Rody, and well planned. It 
is just as I would have it to be, and that is 
not always what we can say in such cases as 

" Then you knew the men themselves 
would not appear ? " 

She swept the car deftly round a butcher's 
cart, and answered immediately : — 

" If I had not known that Mr. Waters 
would employ private detectives I should 
never deserve your help again. Now, be a 
good boy and look out for the policemen. It 
would really be too tragical to fall into a 

I admitted that it would, and did my best 
to avert such a calamity. It was evident that 
she meant to catch one of the Great Western 
expresses at Twyford, and this we succeeded 
in doing with some minutes to spare. When 
we arrived at Paddington she called the first 
cab from the rank and ordered the man to 
drive to the King's Road, Chelsea, naming 
certain studios largely patronized by struggling 
artists. Here we met Mr. Aucheson for the 
first time. You will know him well, for there 
is no cleverer police officer in Europe. 

It was very apparent to me that our dis- 
tinguished ally knew nothing of the business, 
but was very ready to be interested in it. He 
and Joan worked together through the very 
first case she undertook after her father's 
death, and he knows her too well to dispute 
the serious nature of anything which interests 
her. On this occasion he took it for granted 
that she had real need of him, and was not 

"You asked me three months ago," she 
said, " what Jake Harrison was doing in 
England. I am going to tell you this morn- 
ing—when he comes to 39, Grove Road, 

" What, still in London ? We've marked 
him as sailed for Amsterdam." 

" Of course you did ; he meant you to. 
How many men have you got with you, Mr. 

" I brought three, as you asked." 

" Then for goodness' sake keep them out 
of sight. There is a nigger in the house, and 
if he is not right away from this neighbour- 
hood in an hour nothing is any good. 
Understand, he is no use to us. You want 
Jake Harrison, and he will only go to 
39, Grove Road, if the boy warns him that 
he may." 

Aucheson looked somewhat disappointed. 

" Is that the nigger they call Happy Sam 

" The very man — we'll catch him next time. 
If he shows fight to-day we must take him, but 
I think he'll run, and that's what I want. If 
your men can catch him when he's away from 
Grove Road they may do so, but we must 
keep the street quiet, whatever we do, or Jake 
will not return." 

He nodded his head, beginning to under- 

" How are you going to get into the 
house ? " 

"I shall send a boy with a parcel, and 
then go myself " 

" Good heavens, the nigger would murder 
you ! " 

" I don't think so— he has seen me before. 
Besides, Mr. Kirlew will not be far off, and 
he likes niggers. Now, let us go ; there is 
no time to lose." 

Wc set off immediately, and reached Grove 
Road after ten minutes' sharp walking. The 
detectives themselves followed at a distance, 
perhaps, of a hundred yards, but were 
forbidden to enter the street at all. The 
latter, I should tell you, is a shabby row of 
narrow-fronted houses, four storeys high, and 
with no gardens in front, and but three steps 
apiece to the front doors. No. 39 is at 
the middle of the row, and even more 
shabby and dilapidated than the others. 
To this house we now sent a small boy — 
who accompanied us from the studios — and 
he carried a parcel which would have done 
credit to any grocer. His instructions were 
to knock at the door of No. 39 and ask for 
Mr. Went worth. He was a sharp lad, and 
quickly understood, 




It is easy for me to set down the details of 
this extraordinary morning, but not so easy 
to define the mingled feelings with which 1 
awaited the. issue. Joan had expressed her 
determination to enter the house, and I knew 
that nothing would turn her from it. And 
yet the peril was indisputable — a peril not to 
be wholly stated or measured, but well under- 
stood by any who have knowledge of these 
criminal gajigs. 

She was gojng to face the nigger who had 
frightened Leslie Waters, and this man might 
kill her. . To look at her laughing face as she 
watched the messenger-boy go down the road 
was to say .that she feared nothing. Even 
Mr. Aucheson demurred at this point, and 
would have dissuaded her, but the boy had 
reached the house before his arguments were 
finished, and herself followed him so 
quickly that she was gone and had passed 
the door while he. was still in the middle of 
a sentence. For my part, I did not hesitate 
an instant, but running after her I entered 
the house upon her heels, and immediately 
followed her upstairs. The thought that she 
was already alone with the nigger maddened 
me. I was almost afraid that he might have 
done his worst. . » • .*- 

44 foan ! Joan ! " I cried ; " where are you, 
Joan?" r ; v . 

The answer was a thundering crashing of 
glass, a loud cry, and . then the sound of a 
heavy body falling. Opening the door of 
what should have, been the drawing-room, I 
found myself in a. bare apartment with a long 
window at the, end of it, but the glass shivered 
to atoms and the furniture near by in' a 
parlous state. . v 

44 Good heavens, Joan ! " I cried ; " what is 
it ? Where is the nigger ? " 

44 He has gone through the window," she 
replied. " Please don't follow him, Rody — 
I would much rather not" 

"What? He's bolted?" 

"We met last jiight in the wood when. I 
had Bismarck with me. I^hink he imagines 
me to be a ghost. Now let Mr. Aucheson 
come up, and shut the frot)t do<>r. Happy 
Sam has a thick head. You need not be 
anxious about to jm.",, 

I ran to the window and ^looked out. 
There were leads, perhaps ten feet below, 
and a pool of blood upon them. It was 
plain that the nigger had bolted, and would 
escape by climbing the garden walls at the 
corner. Joan must have wished him to do 
so, or she would never have made such a 

So much I understood, nor do I think 

Vol xxxviu— 28. 

igiiized by \^i009 !C 

that her object was hidden from me. When 
Aucheson came up, she told him in a sen- 
tence what he must do. 

44 Jake Harrison was at Henley at eleven 
o'clock," she said.. 44 He tried to get away 
in a motor-car, but the chauffeur had instruc- 
tions to break down on the road. If the 
nigger does not get right away arrest him 
immediately, but do not make a fuss in the 
street if you can help it. I could have taken 
Harrison at Henley, but we might have lost 
<. the papers we want. They are all here, and 
I am going to read them. Remember he is 
dangerous ; do not give him any opportunity 
to prove it when he comes — which I think 
will be soon if it is at all." 

He nodded assent and went downstairs. 
Joan' herself threw off her gloves deftly and 
began to read as though every instant were 
precious. I think she spoke but once during 
a whole hour, and that was to rebuke my 
folly in approaching the window. 

44 My dear , Rody, why not shout from the 
house-tops ? " 

44 Forgive me, Joan— they really can't see 
into a room like this." 

She shrugged her shoulders and went on 
reading. The lottery of the thing galled 
upon me. Would Harrison come, or had 
the nigger warned him? This question I 
answered at three o'clock, when the sound of 
' a key in the latch below brought me quickly 
to my feet. An instant later I heard two 
shots from a revolver, and before I could do 
as much as to open the door the man with 
the pince-nez and the game arm was on top 
of me, and I was fighting him for my life. 

We had the fellow trapped surely enough 
— but what a scrummage, what oaths and 
fury and vain blows, before you could say as 
much. - I was black and blue for a fortnight 
afterwards, and ' Aucheson little better off. 
No tiger could have scratched and clawed, 
wormed and twisted, as this notorious adven- 
turer. And when others came to our assis- 
^ tance and we trussed him like a fowl, even 
then his oaths were dreadful to hear. • Hap- 
pily he was on his way to the police-station 
before a quarter of an hour; had passed, and 
Joan and I were inside a four-wheeled cab, 
driving to Estelles, the publishers. 

44 Who is he, Joan ? n I asked her. 44 What 
did he want with a musician? I shouldn't 
have thought that Leslie Waters would have 
been of any use to a gang like that ? " 

44 My dear Rody, there are any number of 
things you do not think of. What he wanted 
was the manuscript of Mr. Waters's new opera, 
4 Theodora.' ..Have you read nothing of im- 






personations as they practise them in America? 
These people were going to impersonate Mr. 
Waters in New York, to sell bogus music if 
they couldn't steal the real article, to get credit* 
swindle hotel-keepers, and do a hundred 
other things in the name of a respected 
English artiste. It is an old gang and has 
been at the work before. I thought of it 
directly I saw the letter The nigger, Happy 
Sam of Sard is, is a new importation ; but he 
is only a bully employed by cowards, and he 

doesn't interest 
me this time. 
When you left me 
the other day I 
visited Estelles 
and then went on 
to Henley. The 
nigger would have 
broken into the 
house that night 
but for Bismarck, 
but I didn't wish 
him to do so, for 
I wanted Harri 
son's papers. That 
was what took me 
down and kept 
me :n the wood 
for a couple of 
hours, Oh s it was 
droll enough, 
Happy Sam met 
me face lo fare, 
and I think he 
took me for a 
ghost You should 
have heard the 
yell he gave when 
he bolted down to 
the river, Mr- 
Harrison, I hope 
and believe, will 
get seven years, 
but Estelles will 
have to help us 
with evidence. 
Here we are, by the 
way. Now come 
in with me, and 
then we will go 
and have lunch," 

I followed her 
into Estelles* great 
house iti Holies 
Street t and imagine 

mv astonishment 


when the first person 1 met was a man with 
a game arm and pince-nez — the very living 
double of Jake Harrison* 

" You see," she said to me, il Mr, Harrison 
has not a game arm, but he put one on 
that people might say that one of Estelles' 
employes had stolen Mr, Waters's music. Is 
not that very simple, Rody? Would not a 
child have thought of it?" 

Well, I hadn't, and that'sa fact; but, of course, 
there is very little Joan does not think of. 

by Google 

Original from 





Compared with the earnings of popular comedians forty years ago, the £600 weekly salary paid to Mr. Harry 
Lauder seems stupendous. Every lime a single droll stanza escapes his lip* he is some £30 the richer. 

LA MO ROUS is the public in 
every clime to be entertained, 
and it is not ungrateful towards 
its entertainers. Although com- 
petition on the stage and con- 
cert platform every year grows 
keener, many anxious to serve for a bare 
pittance, yet the reward of the really brilliant 
performer was never so high. The profits 
of no profession have kept pace with the 
profits of the actor, vocalist, and musician. 
The income of a successful music-hall droll 
is now far superior to the salary of the Lord 
Chancellor of England, 

Vet it is a mistake to suppose that really 
popular actors were ever badly paid, even 
three centuries ago. Poets might starve in 
garrets, painters might paint masterpieces 
for a couple of crowns or guineas, but any 
player of ability was always in a fair way to 
achieve pecuniary independence. 

In 1590 Robert Greene describes in his 
tract, entitled " Never Too Late," a meeting 
*ith a player whom he took by his "outward 
habit" to be a "gentleman of great living" 
and a "substantial man." The player in- 
formed Greene that he had at the beginning 

Digitized by Google 

of his career travelled on foot, bearing his 
theatrical properties on his back, but he 
prospered so rapidly that at the time of 
speaking "his very share in playing apparel 
would not be sold for ^200, " In the 
University play > "The Return from Parnassus" 
{1601), a poor student rails against the 
wealth and position which a successful actor 
derived from his calling. 

England affords those glorious vagabonds. 

That carried ersi their fardels r»n Ineir backs, 

Coursers to ride on through the gazing streets, 

Sweeping it in their glaring satin suits, 

And pages to attend their masterships; 

With mouthing words that letter wits had framed, 

They purchase land, and now esquires are made* 

Richard Burbage, who was considered the 
best as well as the most [x>pular actor of his 
day, received a regular salary of ,£130 a year 
(equal in our money to ;£ 1,040), besides 
shares in the theatre which brought in a 
large sum. 

The travelling actors, from whom the high- 
wayman, Gamaliel Ratscy, extorted a free 
performance in 1604, were "men with the 
certainty of a rich competency in prospect/ 1 
An efficient actor received in 1635 as large 
a regular salary as ^£180, of which sum 
Original from 




I , Burbage ; 2, Garrick ; 3. Macrcady ; 4. Coquelin ; 5. Kemble ; 6. Irving. 

^1,440 is the modem equivalent. The 
lowest known valuation set an actor's wages 
at 3s, a day, or in modern money about 
^£360 a year Shakespeare's emoluments as 
an actor before 1599 are not likely to have 
fallen below ^Soo in our money ; while the 
remuneration due to performances at Court 
or in noblemen's houses, if the accounts of 
1594 be accepted as the basis of reckoning, 
added some j^t^o, 

Actresses did not appear until about 1662, 
female parts being previously taken by boys. 

by Google 

Amongst the very earliest were Mistress Nell 
Gwyn, of the King's Playhouse, and Mistress 
Knip* Both from having been "orange-girls," 
earning a precarious existence about the 
theatre, were raised to the affluence of jgs. 
a performance— about jQ$ in present value- 
By the time we reach David Garrick the 
emoluments, received by the successful actor 
had steadily increased. Garrick himself could 
command ^50 a week before he went into 
management, besides a benefit which would 
bring in virtually all that the house was 
Original from 




1. Nell Gwyn (1662) received £1 nightly ; 2. Miss Farren, £8 a night : 3. Sarah Bernhardt, £200 a night : 

4. Mrs. Sid dons, £50 a night* 

worth— from ^400 to ^650 for the nighL 
After he went into management his earn- 
ings were enormous, and he died leaving, 
at a low computation, over jQ 100,000. 
Miss Farren's engagement cost the manage- 
ment, at the height of her career, ^£50 
a week, which was what Mrs. Siddons 
al*o consented to receive from Co vent 
Harden Theatre at one period of her fame. 
But this was far below what she could 
and did demand elsewhere and in the 
provinces; and in her biography we read 

by Google 

that on tour ^50 nightly was the sum cheer- 
fully paid for the great actress's services* 
It must be remembered that the value of 
money in the days of the three players just 
mentioned was double what it is at present, 
*>., ^50 then corresponded to ^ioo now. 
Great as the sum then seemed, it soon 
became common, j£$o a night being paid lo 
Kean, Macready, and even Fechter ; but it 
is, of course, dwarfed into insignificance by 
the emoluments received from the American 
public by such artistes as Bernhardt, Coquelin, 
Original from 






I. Teofani; 2. Patti ; 3. Tetrazzim ; 4. Caruso; 5* Melba. 

and Irving. Bernhardt was paid ^200 
a night, which seems to have struck the 
Parisians dumb with astonishment. ' It is 
difficult to apportion Sir Henry Irvine's 
receipts apart from Miss Terry's, But they 
undoubtedly were valued as high as £120 a 
night on tour. 

As for the earnings of famous singers, 
we read In Evelyn's Diary, towards the close 
of the seventeenth century, that "A famous 
young woman, an Italian, was lured by a 
comedian to sing on the stage during so 

Digitized by G< 

many plays, for which they gave her ^500; 
which part by her voice alone at the end of 
three scenes she performed with such modesty 
and grace, and above all with such skill, that 
there never was any who did anything else 
comparable with their voices. She was to go 
home to the Court of the King of Prussia, and I 
believe carried with her out of this vain nation 
about j£ 1,000, everybody covetting to hear her 
at their private houses." But what were the 
emoluments of this Mine. Teofani, even at 
£20 (or ^80 of present value) for twenty 
"Original from 




] &180 

1. Pa<£erew&lti t who receives, the enormous fee of 500 guineas for twenty minutes' playing ; 
2, Kubelik (£160 (or I wo or three selections) is the best -paid living violinist. 

minutes' singing, to the enormous sums 
received by Catalini, Mali bran, Jenny Lind, 
and the great operatic artistes of our own 
day ? At the head of these stands the 
marvellous Patti, with her douceur of ,£i,ioo 
an evening, which works out at about ^40 
a minute, There is, of coarse, a great 
difference between such a phenomenal fee as 
this and the high fees of other performers. 
Caruso comes next with ^500 each time he 
sings. Melba's fee is commonly ^350 an 
evening, which is closely approached by the 
new star, Tetrazzini, 

Amongst musicians Paderewski easily takes 
the lead. Compare his fee of 500 guineas to 
the modest ^5 which easily tempted Mozart! 
Kubelik receives j£iSo for playing a couple 
of pieces on his violin. 


But it is in the domain of vaudeville — of 
the music-hall — that prices and prizes 
have advanced so enormously* Crimaldi 
was the most successful droll of his 
day — a century ago— and he would have 
been quite content to have received a 
tithe of that paid to the successful I>ondon 
comedian of 1909. It seems almost 
incredible that any manager could venture 
to pay any single performer ^800 a 
week and not go into bankruptcy. Yet 
such is the princely salary received by Mr. 
Harry Lauder, It is more than twice what 
the late Dan Lenoever earned, and his salary 
was accounted prodigious. Miss Marie Lloyd 
delights her audiences to the tune of ^24° 
a week ; while Miss Loftus has for a period 
commandedrjevjen a WfP? n -, Of the popularity 


2 24 


I. Grimaldi ; 2. Mi&s Clssic Loflua ; 3, Dan Leno ■ 4. Maud Allan ; 5. Little Ticli ; 6. Miss Marie Lloyd. 

of Little Tich his salary is eloquent ; while 
Miss Maud Allan's success as a dancer 
probably made her the best-paid exponent 
of the Terpsichorean art since the world (at 
least, the world of the theatre) began. 

It may be added that the figures quoted 
in the foregoing article have been compiled 
from the published statements of the artistes 
mentioned therein, and their managers or 
impresario^ r j g j na | frorn 


BY E-tft<5Birr 



ICKIE fell asleep between 
clean, coarse sheets in a hard, 
narrow bed, for which four- 
pence had been paid. 

u Put yer clobber under yer 
bolster — likewise yer boots/' 
was the last instruction of his new friend and 

There had been a bath — or something 
equally cleansing — in a pail near a fire where 
ragged but agreeable people were cooking 
herrings, sausages, and other delicacies on 
little gridirons or pans which they unrolled 
from the strange bundles that were their 
luggage* One man who had no gridiron 
cooked a piece of steak on the kitchen 
tongs. Dickie thought him very clever. A 
very fat woman asked Dickie to roast a 
herring for her on a bit of wood, and when 
he had done it she gave him two green 

He lay in bed and heard jolly voices 
talking and singing in the kitchen below. 

VfA. xxxviL — 29. 

Copyright, 1909, by 


And he thought how pleasant it 
was to be a tramp, and what jolly 
fellows the tramps were ; for it 
seemed that all these nice people 
were " on the road/ 1 and this place 
where the kitchen was, and the good company, 
and the clean bed for fourpence, was a tramps' 
hotel — one of many that are scattered over 
the country, and called "common lodging- 

Next morning, quite early, they took the 
road. From some mysterious source Mr. 
Beale had obtained an old double perambu- 
lator which must have been made, Dickie 
thought, for very fat twins, it was so broad 
and roomy, Artfully piled on the front part 
was all the furniture needed by travellers who 
mean to sleep every night at the inn of Mr. 
Silver Moon, {That is the inn where they 
have the beds with the green curtains.) 

H What's all that there?" Dickie asked, 
pointing to the knobbly bundles of all sorts 
and shapes, tied on to the perambulator's 

" All our truck what we'll want on the 
road," said Beale. 

" And that pillowy bundle on the seat ? " 

"That's our clobber. I've bought you a 
little jacket to put on <V nights if il ? s cold or 
wet- An' when you want a lift— why, here's 




your carriage — and you can set up 'ere and 
ride like the Lord Mayor, and I'll be yer horse, 
and the bundle'll set on yer knee like a fat 
babby. Tell yer what, mate — looks to me 
as if I'd took a fancy to yer." 

" I 'ave to you ; I know that," said Dickie, 
settling his crutch firmly and putting his 
hand into Mr. Beale's. Mr. Beale looked 
down at the touch. 

" Swelp me ! " he said, helplessly. Then, 
" Does it hurt you— walking?" 

"Not like it did 'fore I went to the 

"Well," said Mr. Beale, "you sing out 
when you get tired and I'll give yer a ride." 

They camped by a copse for the midday 
meal, sat on the grass, made a fire of sticks, 
and cooked herrings in a frying-pan — pro- 
duced from one of the knobbly bundles. 

" It's better'n Fifth o' November," said 
Dickie, "and I do like you. I like you 
nexter my own daddy an' Mr. Baxter nex' 

"That's all right," said Mr. Beale, 

It was in the afternoon that, half-way up 
a hill, they saw coming over its crest a lady 
and a little girl. 

" Hout yer gets," said Mr. Beale, quickly j 
" walk as 'oppy as yer can, and if they arsts 
you, yer say you ain't 'ad nothing to eat since 
las' night, and then it was a bit o' dry bread." 

" Right yer are," said Dickie, enjoying the 

" An' mind you call me ' father.' " 

" Yuss," said Dickie, exaggerating his lame- 
ness in the most spirited way. It was acting, 
you see — and all children love acting. 

Mr. Beale went more and more slowly, and 
as the lady and the little girl drew near he 
stopped altogether and touched his cap. 
Dickie, quick to imitate, touched his. 

"Could you spare a trifle, mum," said 
Beale, very gently and humbly, " to 'elp us 
along the road ? My little chap, 'e's lame, 
like wot you see. It's a 'ard life for the likes 
of 'im, mum." 

" He ought to be at home with his mother," 
said the lady. 

Beale drew his coat-sleeve across his eyes. 

" 'E ain't got no mother," he said. " She 
was took bad sudden — a chill, it was, and 
struck innards. She died in the infirmary. 
Three months ago it is, mum. And us not 
able even to get a bit of black for her." 

Dickie sniffed. 

" Poor little man," said the lady ; " you 
miss poor mother, don't you ? " 

" Yuss," said Dickie, sadly ; " but father, 

Digitized by Lx* 

'e's very good to me. I couldn't get on if it 
wasn't for father." 

" Oh, well done, little 'un," said Mr. Beale 
to himself, 

" We lay under a 'aystack last night," he 
said aloud, "and where well lie tonight 
gracious only knows, without some kind soul 
lends us a 'elpin' 'and." 

The lady fumbled in her pocket, and the 
little girl said to Dickie : — 

" Where are all your toys ? " 

"I ain't got but two," said Dickie, "and 
they're at 'ome. One of them's silver — real 
silver; my grandfather 'ad it when 'e was a 
little boy." 

" But if you've got silver you oughtn't to 
be begging," said the lady, shutting up her 

Beale frowned. 

" It only pawns for a shilling" said Dickie. 
" Father knows what store I sets by it." 

" A shilling's a lot, I grant you that," said 
Beale, eagerly, " but I wouldn't go to take 
away the nipper's little bit o' pleasure, not for 
no shilling, I wouldn't," he ended nobly, with 
a fond look at Dickie. 

" You're a kind father," said the lady. 

" Yes, isn't he, mother ? " said the little girl. 
" May I give the little boy my penny ? " 

The two travellers were left facing each 
other, the richer by a penny, and oh ! — 
wonderful good fortune— a whole half-crown ! 

" You did that bit fine," said Beale. " Fine, 
yer did. You been there before, ain't ye ? " 

" No, I never," said Dickie. " 'Ere's the 

" You stick to that," said Beale, radiant 
with delight. " You're a fair masterpiece, 
you are. You earned it honest if ever a kid 
done. Pats you on the napper, she does, 
and out with 'arf a dollar. A bit of all right, 
I call it ! " 

They went on up the hill as happy as any- 
one need wish to be. 

They had told lies, you observe, and had 
by these lies managed to get half a crown 
and a penny out of the charitable ; and, far 
from being ashamed of their acts, they were 
bubbling over with merriment and delight at 
their own cleverness. 

By evening they had seven and tenpence. 

The new game of begging and inventing 
stories to interest the people from whom it 
was worth while to beg went on gaily, day 
by day and week by week, and Dickie, by 
constant practice, grew so clever at taking 
his part in the acting that Mr. Beale was 
quite dazed with admiration. 

" Blessed if I ever see such a nipper ! " he 






said, over and over again. And when they 
got nearly to Hythe and met with the red- 
whiskered man, who got up suddenly out of 
the hedge and said he'd been hanging off 
and on, expecting them for nigh on a week, 
Mr. Beale sent Dickie into a field to look for 
mushrooms — which didn't grow there — ex- 
pressly that he might have a private conver- 
sation with the red- whiskered man, a 
conversation which began thus : — 

M Couldn't get 'ere afore* Couldn't get a 
nipper. 5 ' 

"'E's 'oppy, 'e is ; e ain't no good." 

" No good ? " said Beale. " That's all you 
know ! J E*s a wunner, and no error. Turns 
the ladies round 4s finger easy as kiss yer 
'and Clever as a trained dawg, 'e is— and 
all outer 'is own ed. And to 'ear the way J e 
does the patter to me on the road ! It's as 
good as a gaff any day to 'ear 'im. My 
word, I ain't sure as I 'adn't better stick 
to the road, and keep away from old 'ands 
tike you, Jim." 

» Doin' well, eh ? ■ said Jim. 

" Not so dusty," said Mr. Beale, cautiously ; 
"we rub along some'ow. But 'e's got so 

red in the face and 
plumped out so, 
they'll soon say 'e 
doesn't want thur 

" Starve 'im a 
bit, 11 said the red- 
whiskered man, 

Mr. Beale 
laughed. Then he 
said : — 

11 It's rum, I likes 

to see the little 

beggar stokin 1 up, 

all it spoils 'is 

market, If 'e gets a bit 

fat 'e makes it up in 

cleverness. You should 

ear 'im ! " And so 

forth and so on, till the 

red whiskered man said, 

quite crossly :— 

" Seems to me you're 
a bit dotty about this 
'ere extry-double nipper. 
I never knew you took 
like it afore." 

11 Fact is," said Beale, 
with an air of great 
candour, w it's ! is clever- 
ness does me. It 
ain't as I'm silly about 
'im, but Vs that clever ! " 

11 1 'ope 'e's clever enough to do wot Vs 
told ; that's all." 

u He's clever enough for h anything" said 
Beale. "Close as wax. 'E's got a silver 
toy 'idden away somewhere— it only pops for 
a bob— and d'you think VII tell me where 
it's stowed ? Not J im ! And us such pals as 
never was, and 'is jaw wagging all day long. 
But J e's never let it out." 

11 Oh, stow it !" said the other, impatiently. 
" I don't want to 'ear no more about 'im. If 
Vs straight 'e'll do for me, an' if 'e ain't I'll 
do for 'im. See? An' now you an' me '11 
'ave a word or two particler and settle up 
about this 'ere job. I got the plan drawed 
out. It's a easy job as ever I see. Tip- 
topper ! Seems to me Tuesday's as good a 
day as any. Sir Edward Talbot — that's 'im ; 
'e's in furrin parts for 'is 'ealth, 'e is. Comes 
'ome end o' next week. Little surprise for 
1m t eh? You'll 'ave to train it. Abrams, 'e'U 
be there Monday, And see 'ere— — " He 
sank his voice to a whisper. 

When Dickie came back, without mush- 
rooms, the red whiskered man was gone, 




" See that bloke just now ? " said Mr. Beale. 

" Yuss," said Dickie. 

"Well, yer never see 'im. If anyone arsts 
you if you ever see 'im, you never set eyes on 
'im in all your born — not to remember 'im. 
Might V passed 'im in a crowd, see?" 

" Yuss," said Dickie again. 

" Well, now we're a-goin' in the train like 
dooks, an' after that we're a-goin' to 'ave a rare 
old beano, I give you my word ! " 

Dickie was full of questions, but Mr. Beale 
had no answers for them. "You jes' wait." 
" Hold on a bit." " Them as lives longest 
sees most" — these were the sort of remarks 
which were all that Dickie could get out of 

They took the train on Monday, and it 
landed them in a very bright town by the 
sea. Its pavements were of red brick and 
its houses of white stone, and its bow- 
windows and balconies were green, and 
Dickie thought it was the prettiest town in 
the world. They did not stay there, but 
walked out across the downs, where the sky- 
larks were singing ; and in a dip of the 
downs came upon great stone walls and 
towers very strong and grey. 

" What's that there ? " said Dickie. 

" It's a castle, like what the King's got at 

" Is it a King as lives 'ere, then ? " Dickie 

" No ! Nobody don't live 'ere, mate," said 
Mr. Beale ; " it's a ruin, this is. Only howls 
and rats lives in ruins." 

Dickie, after some reflection, said, " D'jever 
'ear of Here Ward ? " 

" I know'd a Jake Ward wunst." 

" Here Ward the Wake. He ain't a bloke 
you'd know — Ys in 'ist'ry. Tell you if you 

The tale of Hereward the Wake lasted till 
the jolting perambulator came to anchor in 
a hollow place among thick furze-bushes. 
The bare thick stems of the furze held it up 
like a roof over their heads as they sat. It 
was like a little furze-house. 

Next morning Mr. Beale shaved — a thing 
he had not done since they left London, 
Dickie held the mug and the soap. It was 
great fun, and afterwards Mr. Beale looked 
quite different. That was great fun, too. 
And he got quite a different set of clothes 
out of his bundle, and put them on. And 
that was the greatest fun of all. 

" Now, then," he said, " we're a-goin' to 
lay low 'ere all day, we are. An' then come 
evening we're a-goin' to 'ave our beano. 
That red-'eaded chap wot you never see — 

Digitized by dOOQ lC 

'e'll lift you up to a window wot's got bars to 
it, and you'll creep through — you being so 
little — and you'll go soft's a mouse the way 
I'll show you, and undo the side door. 
There's a key and a chain, and a bottom 
bolt. The top bolt's cut through, and all the 
others is oiled. That won't frighten you, will 
it ? " 

" No," said Dickie ; " what should it 
frighten me for ? " 

" Well, it's like this," said Mr. Beale, a 
little embarrassed. " Suppose you was to 
get pinched ? " 

" What 'ud pinch me ? A dawg ? " 

" There won't be no dawg. A man, or a 
lady, or somebody in the 'ouse. Supposin' 
they was to nab you, what 'ud you say ? " 

Dickie was watching his face carefully. 

" Whatever you tells me to say," he said. 

The man slapped his leg gently. 

" If that ain't the nipper all over ! Well, 
if they was to nab you, you just say what I 
tells you to. And then, first chance you get, 
you slip away from 'em and go to the station. 
And if they comes arter you, you say you're 
a-goin' to your father at Dover. And first 
chance you get you slip off, and you come 
,to that 'ouse where you and me slep' at 
Gravesend. I've got the dibs for yer ticket 
done up in this 'ere belt I'm a-goin' to put 
on you. But don't you let on to anyone it's 
Gravesend you're a-comin' to. See ? " 

" An' if I don't get pinched ? " 

" Then yer just opens the door and me 
and that red-'eaded bloke we comes in." 

" What for ? " asked Dickie. 

" To look for some tools 'e mislaid there a 
year ago when 'e was on a plumbing job — 
and they won't let 'im 'ave them back, not 
by fair means, they won't. That's what for." 

" Rats," said Dickie, briefly. " I ain't a 
baby. It's burgling, that's what it is." 

" You're a jolly sight too fond of calling 
names," said Beale, anxiously. " Never mind 
what it is. You be a good boy, matey, and 
do what you are told. That's what you do. 
You know 'ow to stick it on if you're pinched. 
If you ain't you just lay low till we conies 
out with the— the plumbing tools. See ? " 

" And if I'm nabbed, what is it I am to 
say ? " 

" You must let on as a strange chap 
collared you on the road — a strange chap 
with a black beard and a red 'andkercher — 
give you a licking if you didn't go and 'climb 
in at the window. Say you lost yer father in 
the town, and this chap said he knew where 
'e was. And if you see me you don't know 
me. Nor yet that red-'eaded chap wot yer 




never see." He looked down at the small, 
earnest face turned up to his own. "You 
art a little nipper," he said, affectionately. 
" I don't know as I ever noticed before quite 
wot a little 'un you was. Think you can 
stick it ? You sha'n't go without you wants 
to, matey. There ! " 

u It's splendid," said Dickie ; " it is an 
adventure for a bold knight. I shall feel 
like Here Ward when he dressed in the 
potter's clothes and went to see King 

He spoke in the book voice, 

"There you go," said Mr. Beale, "but 
don't you go and talk to 'em like that if they 
pinches you ; they'd never let you loose again. 
Think they'd got a marquis in disguise, so 
they would." 

Dickie thought all day about this great 
adventure. He did not tell Mr. Beale so, 
but he was very proud of being so trusted. 
Dickie had no idea that it was wrong. It 
seemed to him a wholly delightful and 
sporting amusement 

While he was exploring the fox-runs among 
the thick stems of the gorse, Mr. Beale lay 
at full length and pondered. 

"I don't more'n 'arf like it," he said to 
himself. " Ho, yuss. I know that's wot I 
got 'im for all right. But 'e's such a jolly 
little nipper. I wouldn't like anything to 
'appen to 'im, that I wouldn't." 

Dickie took his boots off and went to sleep 
as usual, and in the middle of the night Mr. 
Beale woke him up and said : — 

" It's time." 

There was no moon that night, and it was 
very, very dark. Mr. Beale carried Dickie 
on his shoulders for what seemed a very long 
way along dark roads, under dark trees, and 
over dark meadows. A dark bush divided 
itself into two parts and one part came sur- 
prisingly towards them. It turned out to be 
the red-whiskered man, and presently from 
a ditch another man came. And they all 
climbed a chill, damp park fence, and crept 
along among trees and shrubs on the 
inside of a high park wall. Dickie, still on 
Mr. Beale's shoulders, was astonished to find 
how quietly this big, clumsy-looking man 
could move. 

Through openings in the trees and bushes 
Dickie could see the wide park, like a spread 
shadow, dotted with trees that were like 
shadows too. And on the other side of it 
the white face of a great house showed only 
a little paler than the trees about it. There 
were no lights in the house 

They got quite close to it before the 

Dioilized bv viUDvlL 

shelter of the trees ended, for a little wood 
lay between the wall and the house. 

Dickie's heart was beating very fast. 
Quite soon now his part in the adventure 
would begin. 

" 'Ere — catch 'old," Mr. Beale was saying, 
and the red-whiskered man took Dickie in 
his arms and went forward. The other two 
crouched in the .wood. 

Dickie felt himself lifted, and caught at a 
window-sill with his hands. It was a damp 
night and smelt of earth and dead leaves. 
The window-sill was of stone, very cold. 
Dickie knew exactly what to do. Mr. Beale 
had explained it over and over again all day. 
He settled himself on the broad window- 
ledge and held on to the iron window-bars 
while the red-whiskered man took out a pane 
of glass with treacle and a handkerchief, so 
that there should be no noise of breaking or 
falling glass. Then Dickie put his hand 
through and unfastened the window, which 
opened like a cupboard door. Then he put 
his feet through the narrow space between 
two bars and slid through. He hung inside, 
his hands holding the bars, till his foot found 
the table that he had been told to expect just 
below, and he got from that to the floor. 

" Now I must remember exactly which 
way to go," he told himself. But he did not 
need to remember what he had been told, 
for quite certainly and most oddly he knew 
exactly where the door was, and when he had 
crept to it and got it open he found that he 
now knew quite well which way to turn and 
what passages to go along to get to that little 
side door that he was to open for the three 
men. It was exactly as though he had been 
there before in a dream. He went as 
quietly as a mouse, creeping on hands and 
knee — the lame foot dragging quietly behind 

I will not pretend that he was not fright- 
ened. He was, very. But he was more 
brave than he was frightened — which is the 
essence of bravery, after all. His heart beat 
so loudly that he felt almost sure that if any 
people were awake in the house they would 
hear it, even upstairs in their beds. But he 
got to the little side door and, feeling with 
sensitive, quick fingers, found the well-oiled 
bolt and shot it back. Then the chain — 
holding the loose loop of it in his hands so 
that it should not rattle, he slipped its ball 
from the socket. Only the turning of the 
key remained, and Dickie accomplished that 
with both hands — for it was a big key — kneel- 
ing on his one sound knee. Then, very 
gently, he turned the Jwrdle and pulled, 





^]+ ft. *HilulA«- aS 


and the door opened, and he crept from 
behind it and felt the cool, sweet air of the 
night on his face. 

It seemed to him that he had never known 
what silence was before, or darkness, for the 
door opened into a close box arbour, and 
no sky could be seen, or any shapes of 

Dickie felt himself almost bursting with 
pride. What an adventure! And he had 
carried out his part in it perfectly. He had 
done exactly what he had been told to do, 
and he had done it well He stood there on 
his one useful foot, clinging to the edge of 
the door, and it was not until something 
touched him that he knew that Mr, Beale 
and the other men were creeping through the 
door that he had opened* 

And at that touch a most odd feeling came 

Digitized by G* 

to Dickie — the last feeling he would have 
expected — a feeling of pride mixed with a 
feeling of shame ; pride in his own clever- 
ness, and another kind of pride that made 
that cleverness seem shameful. He had a 
feeling, very queer and very strong, that he, 
Dickie, was not the sort of person to open 
doors for the letting in of burglars, 

He caught at the third shape that brushed 
by him. 

'* Father/' he whispered, " don J t do it. Go 
back and I'll fasten it all up again. Oh, 
don't, father," 

"Shut your mug," whispered the red- 
whiskered man. Dickie knew his voice even 
in that velvet-black darkness. "Shut your 
mug, or I'll give you what for." 

"Don't, father," said Dickie, and said it 
all the more for that threat. 




" I can't go back on me palp, matey," said 
Mr. Beale ; "you see that, don't you ?" 

Dickie did see. The adventure was begun ; 
it was impossible to stop. He crouched 
behind the open door and heard the soft pad, 
pad of the three mens feet on the stones of 
the passage grow fainter and fainter. They 
had woollen socks 
over their boots, 
which made their 
footsteps sound no 
louder than those 
of padded pussy- 
feeL Then the soft 
pad, pad died 
away, and it was 
perfectly quiet, per- 
fectly dark, Dickie 
was tired ; it was 
long past his proper 
lied -time, and the 
exertion of being so 
extra clever had 
been very tiring. 
He was almost 
asleep when a crack 
like thunder brought 
him stark, staring 
awake- There was 
a noise of feet on 
the stairs, and a 
blundering, hurried 
rush, People came 
rushing past him. 
There was another 
sharp thunder 
sound, and a flash 
like lightning, only 
much smaller. 
Someone tripped 
and fell. There was 
a clatter like pails, 
and something hard 
and smooth hit him 
on the knee- Then 
another hurried 
presence dashed 
past him into the 
quiet night Another 
— no — there was a 
woman's voice. 

"Edward, you 
shaWt. Let them go I You shaYTt — no," 

And suddenly there was a light that made 
one wink and blink. A tall lady in white 
carrying a lamp swept down the stairs, and 
caught at a man who sprang into being out 
of the darkness into the lamp's light, 

" Take the lamp/' she said, and thrust it 



on him. Then, with unbelievable quickness, 

she bolted and chained the door, locked it, 

and, turning, saw Dickie* 

" What's this ? " she said " Oh, Edward ! 

Quick ! Here's one of them. Why — it's a 

child ! " 

Some more people were coming down the 

stairs, with candles 
and excited voices, 
Their clothes were 
o d d 1 y bright. 
Dickie had never 
seen dressing gowns 

The next thing 
that Dickie remem- 
bered was being in 
a room that seemed 
full of people and 
lights and wonder- 
ful furniture, with 
someone holding a 
glass to his lips— a 
little glass that 
smelt of public- 
houses, very nasty. 

." N 0/' said 
Dickie, turning 
away his head 

"Better?" asked 
a lady, and Dickie 
was astonished to 
hnd that he was on 
her lap. 

"Yes, thank 
you/' he said, and 
tried to sit up, but 
lay back again be- 
cause that was so 
much more plea- 
sant He had had 
no idea that any- 
one's lap could be 
so comfortable. 

"Now, young 
man," said a stern 
voice that was not 
a lady's, "just you 
tell us how you 
came here, and 
who put you up 
to it." 
"I got in," said Dickie, feebly, "through 

the butler's pantry window," and as he said 

it he wondered how he had known that it was 

the butler's pantry. It is certain that no one 

had told him. 

"What for?" asked the voice, vvhich Dickie 

now perceivedjjgjft^ffefl^ a gentleman in 





rumpled hair and a very loose pink flannel 
suit, with cordy things on it such as soldiers 

"To let w Dickie stopped. This was 

the moment he had been so carefully pre- 
pared for. He must think what he was 

41 Yes," said the lady, gently, " it's all right, 
poor little chap ; don't be frightened — nobody 
wants to hurt you." 

"I'm not frightened," said Dickie, "not 

"To let " reminded the lady, per- 

" To let the man in." 


44 1 dunno." 

" There were three or four of them," said 
the gentleman in pink ; "four or five " 

" What man, dear?" the lady asked again. 

"The man as said 'e knew where my father 
was," said Dickie, remembering what he had 
been told to say. " So I went along of 'im, 
an* there in the wood 'e said 'e'd give me a 
dressing down if I didn't get through the 
winder and open the door. 'E said 'e'd left 
some tools 'ere, and you wouldn't let 'im 
'ave them." 

44 You see," said the lady, " the child didn't 
know. He's perfectly innocent." 

And she kissed Dickie's hair very softly 
and kindly. 

Dickie did not understand then why he 
suddenly felt as though he were going to 
choke. His head felt as though it were 
going to burst. His ears grew very hot and 
his hands and feet very cold. 

44 1 know'd right enough," he said, sud- 
denly and hoarsely. " An' I needn't 'a' gone 
if I 'adn't wanted to." 

" He's feverish," said the lady, 
doesn't know what he's saying. Look 
flushed he is." 

" I wanted to," said Dickie. " I thought 
it 'ud be a lark. And it was." 

He expected to be shaken and put down. 
He wondered where his crutch was. Mr. 
Beale had had it under his arm. How could 
he get to Gravesend without a crutch ? But 
he wasn't shaken or put down. Instead, the 
lady gathered him in her arms and stood 
up, holding him. 

44 1 shall put him to bed," she said. " You 


sha'n't ask him any more questions to-night 
There's time enough in the morning." 

She carried Dickie out of the drawing- 
room and away from the other people to a 
big room with blue walls and blue and grey 
curtains and beautiful furniture. There was 
a high four-post bed with blue silk curtains 
and more pillows than Dickie had ever seen 
before. The lady washed him with sweet- 
smelling water in a big basin with blue and 
gold flowers, and dressed him in a lace- 
trimmed nightgown which was much too big 
for any little boy. Then she put him into 
the soft, warm bed that was like a giant's 
pillow, tucked him up, and kissed him. 
Dickie put thin arms round her neck. 

" I do like you," he said ; " but I want 

" Where is he ? No — you must tell me 
that in the morning. Drink up this milk " 
— she had it ready in a glass — " and then go 
sound asleep. Everything will be all right, 

" May Heavens," said Dickie, sleepily, 
44 bless you, generous Bean Factress." 

44 A most astonishing child," said the lady, 
returning to her husband. " I can't think 
who it is that he reminds me of. Where are 
the others ? " 

"I packed them off to bed. There's 
nothing to be done," said Sir Edward. " We 
ought to have gone after those men." 

" They didn't get anything," she said. 

" No ; dropped it all when I fired. Come 
on, let's turn in. Poor Eleanor, you must be 
worn out." 

44 Edward," said the lady, " I wish we 
could adopt that little boy." 

" Don't be a silly, dear one," said Sir 

That night Dickie slept in sheets of the 
finest linen, scented with lavender. He was 
sunk drowsily among pillows, and over him 
lay a down quilt, covered with blue-flowered 
satin. On the footboard of the great bed 
was carved a shield, with a great dog on it. 

Dickie's clothes lay, a dusty, forlorn little 
heap, in a stately tapestry-covered chair. And 
he slept, and dreamed of Mr. Beale and the 
little house among the furze and the bed with 
the green curtains. 

(To be continued.) 

by Google 

Original from 

Musical Gymnastics for Children. 


By Mrs. Herbert Bennett. 

HEN M, Jaques-DalcTuze, after 
much study and labour, had 
at last perfected his system of 
physical training he was faced 
by a problem greater than any 
he had already overcome —the 
difficulty of providing it with a name that 
would briefly convey its scope and purpose. 

The cumbersome title, " Gymnastique- 
Rhyrhmique," by which it is known abroad, 
and its stilt more unwieldy English equiva- 
lent, ** Musical Rhythmic Gymnastics," give 
only the faintest indication of its real value 
and intention ; but that is hardly the fault 
of M. J aques Did croze. When the purpose 
of a system is threefold, and includes mental 
as well as physical development, plus the 
basis of a sound musical education, it passes 
the wit of man or woman to find a phrase in 
any language that will adequately express it 

Apart from this purely clerical drawback, 
the Jaques-Dalcroze system is wholly admir- 
able, and deserves the attention of all who 
have the care of children. 
Although new to this country, 
it is well known on the Conti 
nent, and has its head quarters 
at Geneva, where the inventor 

has founded a training school. Its intro- 
duction to London has already begun, and 
its adoption on this side of the Channel 
should only be a question of time and 

A professor at the Geneva Conservatoire, 
musician, composer, and physiologist of no 
mean attainments, M. J aques- Dal croze adds 
to his many talents a strong a ft eel ion for 
children, and sincere sympathy with the 
trials that beset them on the thorny path of 
education. It was his benevolent desire to 
help his little pupils in their efforts to master 
the intricacies of musical time that led to 
the first rudimentary idea of his present 
system of training. 

With few exceptions every child conies 
Into the world with a royal dower of brain 
and muscle; but the future of this priceless 
birthright depends greatly on what facilities 
for development it receives during the first 
twelve years of life. The intellectual and 
a child should grow 
together, side by side ; 

physical capacity of 

Wql Hxvii-Ba 


but modern educa- 
tion makes little or 
no effort to enlist one 
in the service of the 
other. Everyone 
admits the benefit 
derived from syste- 
matic physical exer- 
cises, but their rela- 
tion to the mental 
faculties is generally 
completely ignored, 
mid muscular force allowed to 
expend itself without sufficient 
aim or rational control 

Kach set of muscles has Its 
special functions ; but instead of 
using only those necessary to 
perform a given action, such as 
raising the hand to the head, we 
often employ the muscles near 
by, and sometimes those in quite 
another part of the body. The 
action thus becomes stifi and 
angular, because needless mus- 

cl 6KJflffl e frft- 11 ,: ' , p ,: " dl!d ; »°* 

^mmmtir """* " 



would be graceful, and, moreover, be per- 
formed without effort or fatigue. This is the 
first principle of the Jaques-Dakroze system. 
Every lesson throughout the entire course 
begins with a series of breathing exerciser 
These once mastered, the next step is to give 
the children an idea of rhythm by showing 
them how to divide musical time into equal 
parts — in other words, into u bars + " This 
they are taught to do by beating time with 
their arms, exactly as a conductor uses his 
baton- Having learned the division of time, 
they are next instructed in the value of 
musical notes, every one written large upon 
the blackboard. Then, carefully marking the 

consists of crotchets or minims only, but a 
judicious mixture of each 5 with an occasional 
pause thrown in by way of variety. This is 
excellent training for the difficulties before 
them, for now begins the combination of 
notes into different rhythms. Common time 
is abandoned for the nonce* and three Tour 
and six-eight time is marched while the arms 
still preserve the conductor's measure of four 
beats in a bar. To do this accurately the 
arms must have learned to act independently 
of the rest of the body, or they could not 
continue to beat the measure uninterrupted 
by the frequent changes of movement the 
feet have to perform. 



M m 





■■■■i HCi 



TWO | 


THE O'M'Ua'uH s BKAT. 

duration or each, they learn to march, not a 
given number of steps, but a semibreve, or so 
many minims or crotchets in a bar, quavers, 
semiquavers, and demt-semiquavers being 
wisely left for a more advanced period. 

Next comes the value of " rests," or pauses, 
and these are denoted by complete repose of 
every musHe in the body for the length of 
time required. To stop suddenly while 
marching and beating time is not by any 
means so easy as it appears to be ; on the 
contrary, it cannot be performed rhythmically 
or with any certainty unless the muscles are 
thoroughly under control. 

From this point, save in exceptional cases, 
the pupils are never shown how to perform 
any evolution; they are merely told what 
notes they are to march, and their brains 
must help them to the rest A bar no longer 

ized by LiOOglC 

That it can be done, and is done, was 
amply proved at a demonstration lecture on 
the Jaques-Dalcroze system recently given in 
London, The lecturer was Miss Kathleen 
0'Dowd, an advanced student from the Insti- 
tute at Geneva, and the only fully-qualified 
teacher of the system yet in England, 

The earlier points of the lecture were illus- 
trated by her pupils, who quite convinced 
everyone present of the efficiency of their 
training. The children had received only 
one term's instruction^ comprising ten lessons 
in all, but the sense of rhythm seemed already 
to have become instinctive, and the accord 
of brain and muscle a second nature. They 
moved in perfect time to the most compli- 
cated musical phrasing, marched bnck wards 
or forwards at a word, never missing a step 
or losing d beat of the bar, and correctly 





interpreted and accented music they were 
then hearing for the first time. Finally— 
(hit there could be no question of following 
a leader, or receiving any guidance from 
without — they sat with closed eyes and beat 
■time to a wonderful medley of tunes and 
rhythms, improvised by the pianist expressly 
to puzzle them as much as possihle. 

But this was nothing to the miracles 
performed by Miss O'Dowd herself. To 
describe a circle with the right arm and at 
the same time draw a triangle with her left 
was to her a simple matter ; while to beat 
simultaneously a bar of three with one hand 
and four with the other, and then repeat 
every action with the reverse hand or nrm, 
seemed the easiest thing in the world- Even 
syncopated time was marched without effort, 
the hands always keeping the tone-beat, while 
the syncopation was marked by the feet* 

Hut the most astonishing illustration of all 

was the rendering of Chopin's No, 5 waltz 
in A flat, which has three distinct pulses run- 
ning through it in beats of two, three, and 
six. Miss OT*owd indicated these by beat- 
ing six in a bar with her left hand, marking 
the two accentuated notes with her right, and 
marching the three crotchets of the bass, 
Only experiment can prove its almost in- 
credible difficulty. After a very brief struggle 
the attempt to accomplish it will be given up 
as hopeless, for the simplest of these exercises 
cannot be mastered without the special 
training that teaches the two halves of brain 
and body to act independently of each other. 
It is easy to understand that children who 
have received instruction in this system 
before beginning to study music learn lo 
play quickly and 
exception ally 
w e 1 1. T h e y 
come to their new 

Alx;JtT T*R CON1 K«Jl- 






work with the beginner's greatest stumbling- 
block completely smoothed away, for their 
training has made musical time and rhythm 
part of themselves. Their fingers, already 
accustomed to obey the brain without hesi- 
tation, readily adapt themselves to strings or 
keyboard, and their power of augmenting or 
limiting muscular force at will gives them a 
sureness and variety of touch that is nor- 
mally the hard-earned outcome of years of 
study, the hall-mark of the virtuoso. 

Their rate of progress is far beyond the 
average, and, in a lesser degree, this is the 
case with adult students whose musical 
education has been well advanced before 
taking up the system. They suddenly find 
themselves quite outstripping all their pre- 
vious records, arid making li^ht of difficulties 
of time and execution that once filled them 
with dismay. 

And over and above its scientific and 

The pause at command of one of his 
classes in the act of marching is as far 
removed from the stereotyped " Halt ! " of 
the gymnasium as can well be imagined. 
There is absolutely no movement after the 
word is given, no coming to attention or 
noisy bringing down of lifted feet into 
position. The class pauses on the instant, 
each child with hand and foot upraised ready 
to move again, and so remains, a picture of 
arrested action, until the sign to march is 

Only a favoured few are born grace ful, 
and most boys and girls have Lo pass 
through a time of trial where the distracting 
question of where to put their hands is only 
equalled by the appalling problem of what to 
do with their feet. But, under the kindly 

musical value the Jaq tics* Dal croze system 
has another charm, and one that is all its 
own, The ordinary training in calisthenics 
or gymnastics no doubt benefits the physical 
condition of the pupils, but it cannot be mid 
to err on the side of grace. Its tendency is 
rather to destroy natural ease of movement 
by cultivating one muscle at the expense of 
another. Hut M- Jaq ues- Dal croze has solved 
the problem of precision without stiffness, 
and discovered the secret of ordered move- 
ment that never suggests thtj action of an 

by Google 

guidance of M. Jaques-Daleioze, the awkward 
age ought lo disappear entirely. "Nerves" 
have no place in his vocabulary, and his 
pupils are far too alert and well trained in 
the habit of attention to have time to think 
of themselves at all 

During the last decade we have made the 
acquaintance of many systems of physical 
culture, but of none so capable or so far 
reaching, Up to the present it is the last 
word in physical, mental, and artistic develop- 
ment, an education in itself for body, mind, 
ftnd spirit t 

Original from 



[ We shaii be glad to receive Contribution! to this section^ and to pay for sue A as are except edJ\ 
Copyright 1909, tay Gw;t^ Newn^s, Limited. 

TN the village church of Comfort (near Pont*Croix), 
X in Western Brittany, is a very good specimen 
of the now rare " Wheel of Fortune/' It is made of 
wood, with a row of bells on its outer rim and 
pivoted between a couple of rough beams— altogether 
very primitive workmanship* By means of a cord 
attached 10 a crank the wheel can be made to revolve 
and set all the bells a -jangling. I have often heard 
that the peasants believe that it has miraculous power 
of healing when rung over the head of a sufferer who 
has placed a son" in the box to which the rope is 

padlocked- I received remarkable confirmation of this 
twlief, for when taking the photograph a well-to-do 
sailor's wife and her husband came into the church 
and looked round. The woman asked me if I 
tfojught there could lie 
any truth in this belief, 
as her child was very 
backward in learning to 
talk. Her nurse, who 
came from those parts, 
had advised her to tiring 
the laby and ring the 
bells of Comfort over 
bis head, when he 
*rould be sure to talk. 
As she was passing, she 
h-ifl liv. ,k::d m lo s^L- if 
k was worth trying ! — 
Mr. F- J- V- Gardiner, 
io, Leigh Koad, Clif- 
ton, Bristol- 


THK photograph I 
forward you was 

taken recently in Pietermariizhurg, Natal, the curious 
scene shown being brought about by the coroner's ver- 
dict on a drowning accident on the Imsindusi River. 
The boat in the photograph was characterized by the 
coroner as utterly unsafe. The owner % who keeps 
boats for hiring purposes, was very indignant, fearing 
that such condemnation would injure his business. 
He declared that the boat, though not beautiful, was 
absolutely safe* and resorted to this convincing le?£ 
to prove his assertion. — Mr, M« L, St at ham, Christ- 
church, Hants. 


I AM sending you the photograph of a decoration 
constructed by the Japanese Legation Guard in 
Peking, when celebrating the anniversary of the Battle 
of Mukden. It shows Japan as a dragon fly crawling 
over Asia, with its wings spread civet the world, and 
is significant of the importance in which the Japs hold 
themselves since their successful encounter with Russia. 
— Mr. C. Naldreit, 114, South Circular Road, Dublin. 




*■.»" *;■*■* 

«*. *& 


tfn qft sov a/ 1 ; ^r- ■ ' 





^ ^ 

_* rf 

*— • *^ 

► > 

+ * 

* * 

•• * 




Merriment, Taciturnity. 




typewritten portrait reproduced in the 

J^ November number suggests that ihc compositor, 
with the aid of his many type signs, is able to produce 
some extraordinary etiects. Here are some simple 
but remarkable illustrations of different moods. The 
three examples in the upper row, being more elabo rate 
ihan l hose in the lower, are consequently more life- 
like*— Mr, Adam Miller, 45, ftrudenell Road, Hyde 
Park, Leeds. 


1£RE is a photograph of a model of the famous 
Flip- Flap of the White City constructed 

m, it is five (eel sl.x indies lii^ls, 
.li hi a;it mack 1 fur use >i< u -^hop- window ornament,- - 
Mr. W. S. Reynolds *, High Street, Milton Regis, 

Digitized by L^OOfik 


I^HE reproduction 
in a recent 
number of The 
Si' wand of a photo- 
graph of an old 
clock induces me to 
send you the picture 
of a very curious old 
water cluck, which I 
am sure will be of 
interest to many of 
y<mr readers. The 
long tube of the clock 
was, I presume, 
filled with water at 
six: a.m., and allowed 
to escape at the rate 
of a drop per 
second or minute 
from the tap at the 
bottom of the clock. 
The hours , as you 
will see, are marked 
from VI to VI, 
and, as lrj e water 
escaped, the float, 
attached to (he hand 
or indicator by a 
wire, was lowered. 
The inscription on 
the brass tablet at 
the bottom is pre- 
sumably the name of 
the maker and the 
date of the manufac- 
ture, and reads as 
follows : " L. JIuni, 

Brumley, 1619."— Mr. Percy Milan, 6l, North Street. 
Stamford, Lines. 


I SEND you the sketch of a framework box. At 
first sight it appears to t>e opened and facing the 
onlooker. Mold the sketch in front of the face ahoui 
ten seconds and the back of the box and also (he 
kick of the lid appears to face the spectator, ft will 
then apptar front and reverse alternately. 1 dis- 
covered this curiosity when drawing a model for my 
little RirL — Mr, F. Leslie, 30, Sion Hill, Clifton, 



2 39 


GINSENG has been Used by the Chinese for 
centuries. Any efforts, however, to discover 
anything further about its use have, I believe, been 
useless, with the exception of the facl that if ihe roots 
are shaped like a human being they are worshipped 
by that people. The root shown below is of w ha I is 
called American cultivated ginseng, and was raised 
in my ginseng garden at Mound, Lake M in ne tonka, 
Minnesota, U.S.A. The propiietor of a Japanese 
rest aura ru in Minneapolis said that he had been in 
Japan, China, Manchuria, and Korea, and that, while 
he had handled barrcla and barrels ol mnseng in 

those countries, always on the look- 
out for human-shaped roots, he had 
never seen any lo compare with 
that in the accompanying photo- 
graph. This root has not only a 
human form, but has a face showing 
expression. Such roots are worth 
fabulous prices, and so careful are 
the Chinese of them that they are 
guarded as their most priceless' pos- 
session. — Miss Daisy Fuller, Mound, 
Lake Minnetonka, Minnesota, 


IN a recent issue of your magazine 
you gave some excerpts from a 
native shopkeeper's catalogue , which 
were jewels of their kind. As these 
examples of mutilated English are 
always interesting, I think you may 
like to use the specimen. s— also taken 
from a catalogue— which I am now 
sending you.- -Mr, K. S. hint, Ibid 
Clerk ^ Edu cation Department, Tammu, 
Punjab, India. 




■ Cured 

■h Quickly*. 
gflj -60S* i 

Sff Black Eyes 

fl -Painted 


by Google 



r pHIS odd sign 
1_ is of a si til 
odder industry 
which flourishes in 
New York's 
Here vou mav have 
a "Mack eye" 
cured speedily, and 
if you have come 
too late for that a 
skilful artist will 
obliterate the dis- 
figurement with the 
aid of a brush and 
colours* — Mr* 
Morris F. Kahn, 
42S, Vanderbilt 
Avenue, Brook- 
lyn, New York, 
U.S. A. 

Patent Roskopf watch, 

This is a very beautiful watch good quality and good 
maker and not ■topped on riding in horse and we are 
highly re com mended and guaranteed and thlj watch con list a 
for whole lift. 
473 Metal Open fncs 21 41 ze key lea* Iiv«r watch 16 


This time piece is most preferable its handle is made of 
pure metal silver and boy ia always frisking up and down on a 
brodel h it surpass in beuty and fe„cinm RnJ gives mutt 
true and reguUr time pieoe is nothing considering iu quahty, 

* ^ •« ■•• #» Bfi 20 

Padlock. with Bell 

772 Tha above when openig then 6f>und 
will be first either locked or open And men 
ear. active and aJao very strong. 

Rb, I each. 


77B The above are Containing English alphabits can work 
with fingurea easily if knows English, 

779 Ra, 8 each. 

g}, Jpfgaz Jgjhmad f$a^hir J^hmad, 

MMhli Stsu Ovrnvon. 





ONE of the last things in the world 
one would expect the glass- 
worker to create would be a cannon ; 
yet Messrs, Thomas Webb and Sons, 
of Stourbridge t recently built two 
cannon out of the finest cut glass. 
The guns weigh, with iheir limber, 
forty pounds each and measure twenty- 
four inches in length. They wheel 
easily and move on their trunnions 
like ordinary cannon. The axle-tree 
and bearings are of ornamental brass. 
The creations may claim to be of some 
historic interest in that they are exact 
mod -Is of the famous ordnance with 
which Major-General Baden -Powell 
successfully defended Maf eking. The 
old cannon was dug up in that place 
during the siege, and investigation has 
since shown that this old cannon was 
cast in Staffordshire, at an ironworks 
within ten minutes' walk of the glass- 
makers establishment. During the 
siege the gun was known as **The Lord Nelson * 7 
and lt Skipping Sally/' the officers using the former 
name and the men the latter. — Mr, H* J. Shepstone, 
35, A inner Road, Clapham Common, London, S.W, 


I AM sending you an interesting item which you 
may regard as worthy of reproduction in your 
Curiosity pages. Apparently the iron horse has no 
terror for the "king of beasts," but, all the same, it 
must be highly disconcerting to those passengers on 
the Uganda Railway who frequent the Tsavo station 
to know that on their arrival there to catch the "up" 
or "down" train they may find a lion in possession. 
The telegram in which the incident is so laconically 



described is reproduced from the South African 
Raitway Mqgmmm * — Mr, W. Eglington, Ray lands, 

Maidenhead. — 


HERE is a photograph of what may be taken 
as the nearest approach to a mermaid yet 


Jit «jl *&:-&:!r^i 



discovered. It will, 1 leel sure, interest many 
readers of The Strand. The fish was caught 
in 1905 at a place called Chota, Aden, by a 
Greek fisherman. Mr, Htrhert Cltrrke, 20, 
Albert knad r AlUhahadj United Provinces, 


(""rw^nL'' Original from 






Original from 


Vol. xxxvii. 

MARCH, 1909. 

No. 219. 

The WHite Prophet. 


[The reader who has not followed the previous portions of this story can readily understand and enjoy 
the following chapters by simply bearing in mind that Colonel Gordon Lord, who is in love with 
Helena, the daughter of the General of the British Army of Occupation in Kgypt, has been ordered 
to arrest the " White Prophet " and to close the University of El Azhar (the greatest seat of Mohammedan 
learning in the world), and, after a terrific struggle between his conscience and his duty as a soldier, 
has refused to carry out his commands. In consequence of tr is refusal his decorations been stripped 
from him and his sword broken by the father of the girl he loves. Subsequently, in a stormy interview, 
the General attacks him in a fit of fury, and in the ensuing struggle falls dead, while the Colonel believes 

that he is himself guilty of his murder. 1 

FIRST BOOK : — The Crescent and the Cross. 

HEN Helena had left the 
General and Ishmael Ameer 
together, the signs she knew 
so well of illness in her 
father's face suggested that she 
should run at once for the 
medical officer. One moment she stood in 
the room adjoining the General's office, 
listening to the muffled rumble that came 
from the other side of the wall, the short 
snap of her father's impatient voice and the 
deep boom of the Egyptian's, and then she 
hurried into the outer passages to pin on her 
hat. There she met the General's aide-de- 
camp, who, seeing her excitement, asked if 
there was anything he could do for her, but 
she answered " No," and then — 

" Yes, I think you might go over to the 
Colonel " (meaning the Colonel commanding 
the Citadel) " and tell him this man is here 
with a crowd of his followers." 

" He must know it already, but I'll go 
with pleasure," said the young lieutenant, 
and at the next moment there were three 
hasty beats on the General's bell followed 
by a summons from the General's soldier- 
servant, and the aide-de-camp disappeared. 

Helena went out by the back of the house, 
and, seeing her cook and the black boy as 
she passed the kitchen quarters, an impulse 
came to her to send somebody else on her 
errand lest anything should happen in her 
absence ; but, telling herself that nobody but 

Vol. xxxvii.— 31 Copyright, 1909, by Hall Caine, 

herself and the doctor must know the secret 
of her father's condition, she hurried along. 

Her way was through the unoccupied 
courts of the old palace, down a flight of long 
steps, through an old gateway whereof the 
iron-clamped door always stood open, across 
a disused drawbridge, and so on to the open 
parade-ground. The Army surgeon's quarters 
were on the farther side of it, and never before 
had the parade-ground seemed so broad. 

When she reached her destination the 
surgeon was out on his evening round of the 
hospital, so she wrote a hurried note asking 
him to come to the General's house imme- 
diately, sent his assistant in search of him, 
and then turned back. 

Returning hurriedly by the " married 
quarters," she was detained for some 
moments by a soldier's wife, a young thing, 
almost a child, who stood at the door of her 
house with a red woollen shawl about her 
shoulders, a baby in long clothes in her arms, 
and a look of radiant happiness on her round 

" YeVe not seen him yet, have ye, miss ? " 
. said the little mother ; and then, holding out 
her baby to be admired, " Only six weeks 
old and he weighs ten pounds. Colonel says 
as how he's a credit to the reg'ment, and I'm 
agoin' to shorten 'im soon. To morrow I'm 
havin' 'im photoed to send to mother. She 
lives in Clerkenwell, miss, and she ain't likely 
to show his photo to nobody in our court — 

oh > no Original fnpm 



Helena did her best to play up to the 
pride of the little Cockney mother, and was 
turning to go when the girl said : — 

u But my Harry tells me as how you're to 
be married yourself soon, so I wish ye joy, 
and many of 'em." 

" Good-bye, Mrs. Dimmock," said Helena, 
but the young thing was not yet done. With 
a look of wondrous wisdom she said : — 

" They're a deal of trouble, miss, but there 
ain't no love in the house without 'em. As 
mother says, they keeps the pot a-boilin'," 
and she was ducking down her head to kiss 
the child as Helena hurried away. 

In ihe bright light of the young mother's 
life and the breadth of shadow that lay upon 
her own Helena thought of Gordon, and her 
anger rose against him again ; but at the 
next moment she saw him in her mind's eye 
as she had seen him last, going out of the 
garden, a broken, bankrupt man, and then 
her eyes filled, and it was as much as she 
could do to see her way. 

In the quickening flow of her emotion this 
riot in her heart, between anger with Gordon 
and with herself, only led to deeper hatred of 
the Egyptian, and even the memory of his 
dignity and largeness, in the single moment 
in which she had looked upon him, made her 
wrath the more intense. 

A vague fear, an indefinite forewarning, 
hardly able yet to assume a shape, was 
beginning to take possession of her. She re- 
called the scene she had left behind her in the 
General's office, the two men face to face, as 
if in the act of personal quarrel, and told 
herself that, if anything happened to her 
father as the result of the excitement caused 
by the meeting, the Egyptian would be the 
cause of it. 

In her impatience to be back she began to 
run. How broad the parade-ground was ! 
The air, too, was so close and lifeless. The 
sun had nearly set, the arms of night were 
closing round the day, but still the sky was 
a hot dark red, like the inside of a trans- 
parent shell that had a smouldering fire 
outside of it. 

At one moment she heard hoarse and 
jarring voices that seemed to come from the 
square of the mosque in front of the house. 
Perhaps the Egyptian and his people were' 
going off with their usual monotonous chant- 
ing of " La ilaha illa-llah ! " She was glad to 
reach the cool shade and silence of the 
empty courts of the old palace, but coming 
to the gateway she found it closed. 

A footstep was dying away within, so she 
knocked and called, and after a moment an 

old soldier, a kind of caretaker of the 
Citadel, opened the gate to her. 

" Beg pardon, miss ! Lieutenant Robson 
told me to shut up everything immediately," 
he said, but Helena did not wait for further 

There was nobody in sight when she 
passed the kitchen quarters, and when she 
entered the house a chill silence seemed to 
strike to the very centre of her life. 

Then followed one of those mystic im- 
pulses of the human heart which nobody can 
understand. In her creeping fear of what 
might have happened during her absence she 
was at first afraid to go into her fathers 
room. If she had done so there and then, 
and without an instant's hesitation, she must 
have found Gordon kneeling over her father's 
body. But in dread of learning the truth 
she tried to keep back the moment of 
certainty, and in a blind agony of doubt she 
stood and tried to think. 

The voices of the men were no longer to 
be heard through the wall, and the deep 
rumble of the crowd outside had died away, 
therefore the Egyptian must have gone. 
Had her father gone too ? She remembered 
that he was in uniform, and took a step back 
into the hall to see if his cap hung on the 
hat-rail. The cap was there. Had he gone 
into his bedroom ? She crossed to the door. 
The door was open and the room was empty. 

Hardly able to analyze her unlinked ideas, 
but with a gathering dread of the unknown, 
she found herself stepping on tiptoe towards 
the General's office. Then she thought she 
heard a faint cry within, a feeble, interrupted 
moan, and in an unsteady voice she called. 

There was no answer. She called again, 
and still there was no reply. Then, girding 
up her heart to conquer her vague fear, which 
hardly knew itself yet for what it was, she 
opened the door. 

The room was almost dark. She took one 
step into the gloom, breathing rapid breath, 
then stopped and said : — 

" Father ! Are you here, father ? " 

There was no sound, so she took another 
step into the room, thinking to switch on the 
light over the desk and at the same time to 
reach the sofa. As she did so she stumbled 
against something, and her breath was struck 
out of her in an instant. 

She stooped in the darkness to feel what it 
was that lay at her feet, and at the next 
moment she needed no light to tell her. 

"Father ! Father! " she cried, and in the 
dead silence that followed the voice of the 
muezzin came from without. 

by LiOOgle 

1 1 '_• i ii 




She was lying prostrate over her father's 
body when the door was burst open as by a 
gust of wind and the Army surgeon came 
into the room. Without a word he knelt and 
laid his hand over the heart of the fallen man, 
while Helena, who rose at the same instant, 
watched him in the awful thraldom of fear. 

Then young Lieutenant Robson came in 
hurriedly, switching on the light and saying 
something, but the surgeon silenced him with 
the lifting of his left hand. There was one 
of those blank moments in which time itself 
seems to stand still, while the surgeon was 
on his knees and Helena stood aside with 
whitening lips, and with eyes that had a wild 
stare in them. Then lifting a face that was 
stamped with the heaviness of horror, and 
told before he spoke what he was going to 
say, the surgeon rose and, turning to Helena,, 
said in a nervous voice : — 

"I regret — I deeply regret to tell you . . ." 

" Gone ? " asked Helena, and the surgeon 
bowed his head. 

She did not cry or utter a sound. Only 
the trembling of her white lips showed what 
she felt, but all the cheer of life had died out 
of her face, and in a moment it had become 
hard and stony. 

There was an instant of silence, and then 
the surgeon and the young lieutenant, cast- 
ing sidelong looks at Helena, began to 
whisper together. At sight of her tearless 
eyes a certain fear had fallen on them which 
the presence of death could not create. 

" Take her away," whispered the surgeon, 
and then the lieutenant, whose throat was 
hard and whose eyes were dim, approached 
her and said, with the sadness of sympathy: — 

" May I help you to your room, please ? " 

Helena shook her head and stood im- 
movable a moment longer, and then, with a 
firm step, she walked away. 

All the moral cowardice that had paralyzed 
Gordon Lord was gone the moment he left 
the Citadel, and as soon as he reached the 
streets of the city the power of life came 
back to him. There in tumultuous swarms 
the native people were swinging along in one 
direction, uttering the monotonous cries of 
the Moslems when they are deeply moved. 
Into this maelstrom of emotion Gordon was 
swept before he knew it, and, hardly conscious 
of where he was going, he followed where he 
was led. 

He felt without knowing why the lust of 
violence which conies to the soldier in battle 
who wants to run away until the moment 

Digitized by Lt< 

when the first shot has been fired, and then 
— all fear and moral conscience gone in an 
instant — forges his path with shouts and 
oaths to where danger is greatest and death 
most sure. 

In the thickening darkness he saw a great 
glow coming from a spot in front of him, as 
of many lanterns and torches burning to- 
gether. Towards this spot he pushed his 
way, calling to the people in their own 
tongue to let him pass, or sweeping them 
aside and ploughing through. In his 
delirious excitement his strength seemed to 
be supernatural, and men were flung away as 
if they had been children. 

At length he reached a place where a 
narrow lane, opening on to a square, was 
blocked by a line of soldiers, who were 
coming and going with the glare of the torch- 
light on their faces. Here the monotonous 
noises of the crowd behind him were pierced 
by sharp cries mingled with screams. 
Perspiration was pouring down Gordon's 
neck by this time, and he stopped to see 
where he was. He was at the big gate of 
El Azhar. 

On leaving the Citadel, Colonel Macfarlane 
had taken two squadrons with him, telling 
the Lieut. -Colonel commanding the regiment 
to follow with the rest. 

" Half of these will be enough for this job, 
and we'll clear the rascals out like rats," he 

The Governor of the city, a small man in 
European dress, acting on the order of the 
Minister of the Interior as Regent in the 
absence of the Khedive, had met him at the 
University. They found the gate shut and 
barred against them, and when the Governor 
called for it to be opened there was no 
reply. Then the Colonel said : — 

"Omar Bey, have I your permission to 
force an entrance ? " 

Whereupon the Governor, in whom the 
wine of life was chiefly vinegar, answered 
promptly : - 

" Colonel, I request you to do so." 

A few minutes afterwards a stout wooden 
beam was brought up from somewhere, and 
six or eight of the soldiers laid hold of it 
and began to use it on the closed gate as a 
battering-ram. The gate was a strong one, 
clamped with iron, but it was being crunched 
by the blows that fell on it when some of 
the students within clambered on to the top 
of the walls and hurled down stones on the 
heads of the soldiers. 

One of them was a young boy of not 
more thgr^x.: frjH^PPfo i>jV ars > anc l while others 




protected themselves by hiding behind the 
coping stones he exposed his whole body to 
the troops by standing on the very crest of 
the parapet- The windows of the houses 
around were full of faces, and from one that 
was nearly opposite to the gate came the 
shrill cry of a woman, calling on the boy to 

At the next moment there was the crack of 
a dozen rifles, and then the boy on the parapet 
swayed aside, lurched forward, and fell into 
the street. The Colonel was giving orders 
that he should be taken up and carried away, 
when the woman's cry was heard again, this 
time in a frenzied shriek, and at the next 


go back. But in the clamour of noises he 
heard nothing, or in the fire of his spirit he 
did not heed, for he continued to hurl 
down everything that came to his hand, until 
Colonel Macfarlane commanded the troop to 
dismount with rifles, and said : — 
" Stop that young devil up there ! J ' 

Digitized by Google 

instant the soldiers had to make way for the 
mightiest thing on earth, an outraged mother 
in the presence of her dead. 

The woman, who had torn the black veil 

from her face, lifted the boy's head on to her 

breast and cried, " My God ! My good God ! 

My bov ! Ali ! Ali ! " But just then the gate 

Original from 




gave way with a crash and the Colonel ordered 
one of the squadrons to ride into the 
courtyard of the mosque, where five thousand 
of the students and their professors could be 
seen squirming in dense masses like ants on 
an upturned ant-hill. 

The soldiers were forcing their horses 
through the crowds and beating with the 
flat of their swords when two or three 
shots were fired within, and it became certain 
that some of the students were using fire- 
arms. At that the bulldog in the British 
Colonel got the better of the man, and he 
wanted to shout a command to his men to use 
the edge of their weapons and clear the place 
at any cost, but the shrill cry of the mother 
over her dead boy drowned his thick voice. 

" He is dead ! They have killed him ! 
My only child ! His father died last week. 
God took him, and now I have nobody. 
Ali, come back to me ! Ali ! AH ! " 

" Take that yelping thing away ! " shouted 
the Colonel, ripping out an oath of impatience, 
and that was the moment when Gordon Lord 
came up. 

What he did then he could never after- 
wards remember ; but what others saw was 
that with the spring of a tiger he leapt up to 
Macfarlane, laid hold of him by the collar of 
his khaki jacket, dragged him from the saddle, 
flung him headlong on to the ground, and 
stamped on him as if he had been a 
poisonous snake. 

In another moment there w r ould have been 
no more Macfarlane ; but just, then, while 
the soldiers, recognising their first staff 
officer, stood dismayed, not knowing what 
it was their duty to do, there came over the 
sibilant hiss of the crowd the loud clangour 
of the hoofs of galloping horses, and the 
native people laid hold of Gordon and 
carried him away. 

His great strength was now gone, and he 
felt himself being dragged out of the hard 
glare of the light into the shadow of a side 
street, where he was thrust into a carriage 
and held down in it by somebody who was 
saying : — 

" Lie still, my brother! Lie still ! Lie still ! " 

For one instant longer he heard deafening 
shouts through the carriage glass, over the 
rumble of the moving wheels, and then a 
blank darkness fell on him for a time, and he 
knew no more. 

When he recovered consciousness his mind 
had swung back, with no memory of anything 
between, to the moment when he was leaving 
the General's house, and he was saying to 
himself again, " I must go back. She may 

Jigiiized by V^OOglC 

curse me, but I cannot leave her alone. I 
cannot — I will not." 

Then he was aware of a voice — it was the 
quavering voice of an old man and seemed 
to come out of a toothless mouth — saying : — 

" Be careful, Michael ! His poor hand is 
injured. We must send for the surgeon." 

He opened his eyes and % saw that he was 
being carried through a quiet courtyard, 
where he could hear the footsteps of the men 
who bore him, and see by the light of a 
smoking lantern the facade of a church. 
Then he heard the same quavering voice 
say : — 

" Take him up to the Salamlilc, my brother," 
and then there was a jerk and a jolt, and he 
lost consciousness again. 

He was lying on a bed in a dimly-lighted 
room when memory returned and the events 
of the day unrolled themselves before him. 
He made an effort to raise himself on his 
elbows, but in his weakness he fell back, and 
after a while he dropped into a delirious 
sleep. In this sleep he saw first his mother 
and then Helena, and then Helena and again 
his mother — everything and everybody else 
being quite blotted out. 

Soon after sunset Lady Nuneham had taken 
her last dose of medicine, and had got 
into bed, when the Consul-General came into 
her room. He had the worn and jaded look 
by which she knew that the day had gone 
heavily with him, and she waited for him to 
tell her how and why. With a face full of the 
majesty of suffering he told her what had 
happened, describing the scene in the 
General's office and all the circumstances 
whereby matters had been brought to such a 
tragic pass. 

" It was pitiful," he said. "The General 
went too far — much too far — and the sight of 
Gordon's white face and trembling lips -was 
more than I could bear." 

His voice thickened as he spoke, and it 
seemed to the mother at that moment as if the 
pride of the father in his son, which he had 
hidden so many years in the sealed chamber 
of his iron soul, had only come up at length 
that she might see it die. 

" It's all over with him now, I suppose, and 
we must make the best of it. He promised 
so well, though ! Always did — ever since he 
was a boy. If one's children could only 
remain children ! The pity of it ! Good 
night ! Good night, Janet ! " 

She had listened to him without speaking 
and withoq^jaj^air coming into her eyes, and 


2 4 X 



*he answered his "Good night " in a low but 
steady voice. Soon afterwards the gong 
sounded In the hall, and as she lay in her 
bed she knew that he would he dining alone 
—one of the great men of the world and one 
<if the loneliest. 

Mean lime Katimah, tidying up the room 
for ihe night and Miififling audibly, was talking 

by Google 

as much to herself as to her mistress. At 
one moment she was excusing the Consul 
General ; at the next she was excusing 
Gordon, Lady Xuneham let her talk on 
and gave no sign until darkness fell and 
the moment came for the Kgvplian woman 
also to get into her bed. Then the old lady 
said ; — 

Original from 




" Open the door of this room, Fatimah," 
pointing to a room on her right. 

Fatimah did so without saying a word, 
and then she lay down, blowing her nose 
demonstratively as if trying to drown other 

From her place on the pillow the old lady 
could now see into the adjoining chamber, 
and through its two windows on to the Nile. 
A bright moon had risen, and she lay a long 
time looking into the silvery night. 

Somewhere in the dead waste of early 
morning the Egyptian woman thought she 
heard somebody calling her, and rising in 
alarm she found that her mistress had left her 
bed and was speaking in a toneless voice in 
the next room. 

" Fatimah ! Are you awake ? Isn't the 
boy very restless to-night ? He throws his 
arms out in his sleep and uncovers little 
Hafiz too/' 

She was standing in her nightdress and lace 
nightcap, with the moon shining in her face, 
by the side of one of the two beds the room 
contained, tugging at its eiderdown coverlet. 
Her eyes had the look of eyes that did not 
see, but she stood up firmly and seemed to 
have become younger and stronger — so 
swiftly had her spirit carried her back in 
sleep to the woman she used to be. 

"Oh, my heart, no!" said Fatimah. 
" Gordon hasn't slept in this room for nearly 
twenty years — nor Hafiz neither." 

At the sound of Fatimah's husky voice 
and the touch of her moist fingers the old 
lady awoke. 

" Oh, yes, of course," she said, and after a 
moment, in a sadder tone, "Yes, yes." 

"Come, my heart, come," said Fatimah, 
and, taking her cold and nerveless hand, she 
led her, now a weak old woman once more, 
back to her bed : for the years had rolled up 
like a tidal wave, and the spell of her sweet 
dream was broken. 

On a little table by the side of her bed 
stood a portrait of Helena in a silver frame, 
and she took it up and looked at it for a 
moment, and then the light which Fatimah 
had switched on was put out again. After a 
little while there was a sigh in the darkness, 
and after a little while longer a soft, 
tremulous — 

"Ah, well!" 

Helena was still in her room when the 
Consul-General, who had been telephoned 
for, held an inquiry into the circumstances 
of the General s death. She was sitting with 

Vol. xxxvii.— 32 

her hands clasped in her lap and her eyes 
looking fixedly before her, hardly listening, 
hardly hearing, while the black boy darted in 
and out with broken and breathless messages 
which contained the substance of what was 

The household servants could say nothing 
except that, following in the wake of the new 
prophet when he left the Citadel, they had 
left the house by the side gate of the garden 
without being aware of anything that had 
happened in the General's office. The 
surgeon testified to the finding of the 
General's body, and the aide-de-camp 
explained that the last time he saw his chief 
alive was when he wks ordered to call 
Colonel Macfarlane. 

" Who was with him at that moment ? " 
asked the Consul-General. 

"The Egyptian, Ishmael Ameer." 

" Was there anything noticeable in their 
appearance and demeanour?" 

"The General looked hot and indignant." 

" Did you think there had been angry 
words between them ?" 

" I certainly thought so, my lord." 

Other witnesses there were, such as the 
soldier-servant at the door, who made a lame 
excuse for leaving his post for a few minutes 
while the Egyptian was in the General's office, 
and the sentry at the gate ef the Citadel, who 
said no one had come in after Colonel Mac- 
farlane and the cavalry had passed out. Then 
some question of calling Helena herself was 
promptly quashed by the Consul-General, 
and the inquiry closed. 

Hardly had the black boy delivered the 
last of his messages when there was a timid 
knock at Helena's door, and the Army 
surgeon came into the room. He was a 
small man with an uneasy manner, married, 
and having a family of grown-up girls, who 
were understood to be a cause of anxiety 
to him. 

"I regret — I deeply regret to tell you, Miss 
Graves, that your father's death has been due 
to heart failure, the result of undue excite- 
ment. You will do me the justice— I'm sure 
you will do me the justice to remember that 
I repeatedly warned the General of the 
dangers of over-exciting himself, but un- 
fortunately his temperament was such . . ." 

The Consul-General's deep voice in the 
adjoining room seemed to interrupt the 
surgeon, and, making a visible call on his 
resolution, he came closer to Helena and 
said : — 

"I havcjjtuJUinentioned my previous know- 



asked some searching questions, but the 
promise 1 made to your father . . ." 

Again the Consul-General's voice inter- 
rupted him, and, with a flicker of fear on his 
face, he said : — 

" Now that things have turned out so 
unhappily, it might perhaps be awkward for 
me if . . . In short, my dear Miss Graves, 
I think I may rely on you not to . . . Oh, 
thank you, thank you ! " he said, as Helena, 
understanding his anxiety, shook her head. 

"I thought it would relieve you to receive 
my assurance that death was due to natural 
causes only — purely natural. It's true I 
thought for a moment that perhaps there 
had also been violence . . ." 

44 Violence ? " said Helena. 

" Don't let me alarm you. It was only a 
passing impression, and I should be sorry, 
very sorry . . ." 

But just at that moment, when a new 
thought was passing through the stormy 
night of Helena's mind like a shaft of deadly 
lightning, the Chaplain of the Forces came 
into the room and the surgeon left it. 

The chaplain was a well-nurtured person, 
who talked comfort out of a full stomach 
with the expansiveness which sometimes 
comes to clergy who live long amongst 

" I have come to say, my dear young lady, 
that I place* myself entirely at your service. 
With your permission I will charge mysell 
with all the sad and necessary duties. So 
sudden ! So unexpected ! How true that 
in the midst of life we are in death ! " 
-- There was more coin from the same mint, 
and then the shaft of deadly lightning as before. 

" It is perhaps the saddest fact of death in 
this Eastern climate that burial follows so 
closely after it. As there seems to be no 
sufficient reason to believe that the General's 
death has been due to any but natural causes, 
it "will probably be to-morrow — I say it will 
probably ..." 

" Sufficient ! " said Helena, and with a new 
poison at her heart she hurried away to her 
father's room. 

She found the General where they had 
placed him, on his own bed and in his uniform. 
His eyes were now closed, his features were 
composed, and everything about him was 
suggestive of a peaceful end. 

While she was standing in the gloomy, 
echoless chamber, the Consul-General came 
in and stood beside her. Though he faintly 
simulated his natural composure, he was 
deeply shaken. For a moment he looked 
down at his dead friend in silence, while his 

lips trembled. Then he took Helena's hand, 
and drawing her aside he said : — 

" This is a blow to all of us, my child, but 
to you it is a great and terrible one." 

She did not reply, but stood with, her dry 
eyes looking straight before her. 

" I have made strict inquiry, and I am 
satisfied — entirely satisfied — that your father 
died by the visitation of God." 

Still she did not speak, and after a moment 
he spoke again. 

" It is true that the man Ishmael Ameer was 
last to be with him, but what happened at 
their interview it would be useless to ask — 
dangerous, perhaps, in the present state of 
public feeling." 

She listened with complete self-possession 
and strong hold of her feelings, 'though her 
bosom heaved and her breathing was audible. 

"So let us put away painful thoughts, 
Helena. After all, your father's end was an 
enviable one, and harder for us than for him, 
you know." 

He looked steadily for a moment at her 
averted face and then said, in a husky voice : — 

" I'm sorry I,ady Nuneham is so much of 
an invalid that she cannot come to see you. 
This is the moment when a mother . . ." 

He stopped without finishing what he had 
intended to say, and then he said : — 

" I'm still more sorry that one who . . ." 

Again he stopped, and then, in a low, 
smothered, scarcely-audible voice, he said, 
hurriedly : — 

" But that is all over now. Good night, 
my child ! God help you ! " 

Helena was standing where the Consul 
General had left her, fighting hard against a 
fearful thought which had only vaguely taken 
shape in her mind, when the black boy came 
back with his mouth full of news. 

The bell of the telephone had rung 
furiously for the English lord and he had 
gone away hurriedly, his horses galloping 
through the gate ; there had been a riot at 
El Azhar, a boy had been shot, a hundred 
students had been killed with swords, the 
cavalry were clearing the streets, and the 
people were trooping in thousands into the 
great mosque of the Sultan Hakim, where the 
new prophet was preaching to them. 

Helena listened to the terrible story as to 
some far-off event which, in the tempest of 
her own trouble, did not concern her, and 
then she sent the boy away. Gordon had 
been right— plainly right — from the first, but 
what did it matter now ? 

Some hours passed, and again and again 
the black boy came back to the room with 




fresh news and messages, first to say that her 
supper was served, next that her bedroom 
was ready, and finally, with shamefaced 
looks and a face blubbered over with tears, 
to explain the cause of his absence from the 
house when the tragic incident happened. 
He had followed the crowd out of the 
Citadel, and only when he found himself at 
the foot of the hill had he thought, " Who 
is to take care of lady while Mosie is away ? " 
Then he had run back fast — very fast — but 
he was too late— it was all over. 

" Will lady ever forgive Mosie ? Will lady 
like Mosie any more ? " 

Helena comforted the little twisted and 
tortured soul with some words of cheer and 
then sent him to bed. But with a sad long- 
ing in his big white eyes and the look of a 
dumb creature that wanted to lick her hand, 
he came back to say he could not sleep in 
his own room because death was in the 
house, and might he sit on the floor where 
lady was and keep her company ? 

Touched by the tender bit of human 
nature that was tearing the big little soul of 
the black boy who worshipped her, Helena 
went back to her own bedroom, and then a 
grin of delight passed over Mosie's ugly face, 
and he said : — 

"Never mind! It's nothing! Lady will 
forget all about it to-morrow. Now lady will 
lie down and sleep." 

Helena put out the light in her room, and, 
sitting by the open window, she looked long 
into the moonlight that lay over the city. 
At one moment she heard the clatter of 
horses' hoofs — Macfarlane's cavalry were 
returning to the Citadel after their efforts in 
the interests of peace and order. At intervals 
she heard the gaffirs (watchmen), who cried, 
" Wahhed " (God is One) in the silent streets 
below. Constantly she looked across to the 
barracks that stood at the edge of the glisten- 
ing Nile, and at every moment the cruel core 
in her heart grew yet more hard. 

Why had not Gordon come to her ? He 
must know of her father's death by this time 
— why was he not there? Why had he not 
written to her, at all events? It was true 
they had parted in anger, but what of that ? 
He had never loved her, or he would be with 
her now. She had done well to drive him 
away from her, and thank God she would 
never see him again. 

The moon died out, a cold breath passed 
through the air, the city seemed to yawn in 
its sleep, the dawn came with its pale pink 
streamers and with its joyous birds — the 
happy, heart-breaking children of the air- 


twittering in the eaves, and then the pride 
and hatred of her wounded heart broke 
down utterly. 

She wanted Gordon now as she had never 
wanted him before. She wanted the sound 
of his voice, she wanted the touch of his 
hand, she wanted to lay her head on his 
breast like a child and hear him tell her that 
it would all be well. 

She found a hundred excuses for him in 
as many minutes. He was a prisoner —how 
could he leave his quarters? They might be 
keeping him under close arrest — how could 
he get away ? Perhaps they had never even 
told him of her father's death — how could he 
write to her about it ? 

In the fever of her fresh thought she 
decided that she herself would tell him, &nd 
in the tumult of her confused brain she never 
doubted that he would come to her. Regu- 
lations ? They would count for nothing. 
He was brave, he was fearless, he would find 
a way. Already she could see him flinging 
open the door of her room, and she could 
feel herself flying into his arms. 

Thus with a yearning and choking heart, in 
the vacant stillness of the early dawn, she sat 
down to write to Gordon. This is what she 
wrote : — 

" Six o'clock, Sunday morning. 

" Dearest, — The greatest sorrow I have 
ever known — God, our good God, has taken 
my beloved father. 

" He loved you and was always so proud 
of you. He thought there was nobody like 
you. I try to think how it all happened 
at the end, and I cannot. 

" Forgive me for what I said yesterday. 
It seems you were right about every- 
thing, and everybody else was wrong. 
But that doesn't matter now — nothing 

" I want you. I have nobody else. I am 
quite alone. God help me ! Come to me 
soon ..." 

Unconsciously she was speaking the words 
aloud as she wrote them, $nd sobbing as 
she spoke. Suddenly she became aware of 
another voice in the adjoining room. She 
thought it might be Gordon's voice, and, 
catching her breath, she rose to listen. Then, 
in a muffled, broken, tear-laden tone, these 
words came to her through the wall : — 

" O Allah, most High, most Merciful, 
make lady sleep ! Make lady sleep, O Allah, 
most High, most Merciful ! " 

Her black boy had been lying all 
night like a dog on the mat behind her 




not at first re- 
member what 

had happened to 
him, and he said 
aloud : — 

" \V here am 

Then a cheery 
voice by his side 
said, "Ah, you 
are awake ? n and 
an elderly man, 
with a good, 
simple, homely 
face, looked 
down at him and 

11 What place 
is this?" asked 

the good 
"This is 
house of 
A n d 


t h e 
I a m 


Bekokk Cordon opened his eyes that 
morning he heard the tinkling of cymbals 
and the sweet sound of the voices of boys 
singing in a choir, and he felt for a moment 
as if he were carried back to his school at 
Eton, where the morning dawned on green 
fields and the joyous carolling of birds. 

Then he looked and saw that he was lying 
in a little, yellow-curtained room which was 
full of the gentle rays of the early sun, and 
opened on a garden in a quiet courtyard, 
with pne date tree in the middle and the 
facade of a Christian church at the opposite 
side* In the disarray of his senses he could 

by Google 


Michael, the 
Patriarch's ser- 
vant. He brought 
you home in his 
carriage last night. 
Out of the riots 
in the streets 
you know. But 
I must tell him 
you are awake* 
•Tell me the 
moment he opens 
his eyes, Michael,' 
he said, X o 
time to lose, 
though, Listen ■ 
They're at matins. 
Hell be going 
still ! I'll be back 

into church soon, 

Then (lordon remembered everything. Thr 
events of the night before rose before him in 
a moment, and he drank of memory's very 
dregs. He had closed his eyes again with 
a groan, when he heard shuffling footsteps 
coming into the room, and a husky, kindly 
voice, interrupted by gusty breathing, saying, 
cheerfully : — 

"God be praised ! Michael tells me you 
are awake and well." 

The Coptic Patriarch was a little man in 
a black turban and a kind of black cassock, 
very old iitrnrl^j rl^fif W rtfears of age and 



2 53 

wit It a saintly face in which the fires of life 
had kindled no evil passions. 

u Don't speak yet, my son. Don't exhaust 
yourself. The surgeon said you were to have 
rest — rest and sleep above all things. He 
came last night to dress your poor hand. It 
was wounded in the cruel fight at EI Azhar. 
I was passing at the moment, and the people 
put you into my carriage, *Save him. for the 
love of God I ' they &*id. £ He is our brother^ 
and he will be taken/ So I brought you 
home, seeing you were hurt, and not knowing 
what else to do with you. But now I am 
glad and thankful, having read the news- 
papers this morning and learned that you 
were in great 
peril . . . No, 
no, my son — lie 

Gordon had 
made an effort 
to raise himself 
on his elbow, 
but, resting his 
weight on his 
left hand and 
finding it was 
closely bandaged 
and gave him 
pain, he was 
easily pushed 
back to his 

" Lie still until 
the sti rgeon 
comes. Michael 
has gone for 
him. He will 
be here imme- 
diately, A good 
man — make 
yourself sure 
about that. He 
will be secret* 
He will say no 

Then there 
came through 
the open window 
the sound of 
footsteps on the 
gravel path of 
the garden, and 
the old Patri- 
arch, leaning 
over Gordon , 
said, in the same 
husky, kindly 
whisper :— - 

"They are coming, and I must go into 
church, but don't be afraid. You did 
bravely and nobly, and no harm shall come 
to you while you are here." 

Hardly knowing what to understand, but 
choking with confusion and shame, Gordon 
heard the old man's shuffling step going out 
of the room, and, a moment afterwards, the 
firm tread of the surgeon coming into it. 

The surgeon, who was a middle-aged man, 
a Copt, with a bright face and a hearty 
manner, took Gordons right arm to feel his 
pulse, and said : — 

" Better ! Much better ! l^ast night the 
condition was so serious that I found it 

" * r-Ldf un^itKAVKur Ian-u nobly, 


tviiii,* YOU akk tty.v.w 



necessary to inject morphia. There was the 
hand, too, you know. The third finger had 
been badly hurt, and I was compelled to take 
the injured part away. This morning, how 
ever . . /' 

But Gordon's impatience could restrain 
itself no longer. " Doctor," he said, clutch 
ing at the surgeon's sl«eve, " close the door 
and tell me what has happened." 

The surgeon repeated the reports which 
appeared in the English newspapers — about 
the clearing out of El Azhar, the shooting of 
the boy, the killing of a hundred students by 
the sword, and the imprisonment of nearly 
four hundred others. And then, thinking 
that the drug he had administered was still 
beclouding his patient's brain, he spoke of 
Gordon's own share in the bad work of the 
night before — how he had refused to obey 
instructions and been ordered under open 
arrest to return to his own quarters ; how he 
had defied authority, and, making his way to 
the University, had perpetrated a violent 
personal attack on the officer commanding 
the troops there. 

" I know nothing about it, you know, but 
what Colonel Macfarlane has communicated 
to the Press— contrary, I should think, to 
Army regulations and all sense of honour and 
decency — but he says you have been guilty 
of a threefold offence : first, mutiny ; next, 
desertion : and finally, gross insult on an 
officer while in the execution of his duty." 

Gordon had hardly listened to this part of 
the surgeon's story, but his face betrayed a 
feverish eagerness when the surgeon said: — 

"There is something else, but I hardly 
know whether I ought to tell you." 

"What is it?" asked Gordon, though he 
knew full well what the surgeon was about to 

" It occurred last night, too, but the 
Consul General has managed to keep it out 
of the morning newspapers. I feel I ought 
to tell you, though, and if I could be sure 
you would take it calmly . . ." 

"Tell me." 

" General Graves is dead. He was found 
dead on the floor of his office. His daughter 
found him." 

Gordon covered his face and asked, in a 
voice which he tried in vain to render natural, 
" What do they say he died of? " 

" God ! " said the surgeon. " That's what 
the Mohammedans call it, and I don't know 
that science can find a better name." 

Suffocating with the sickness of fear, 
Gordon said, " What about his daughter ?" 

" Bearing herself with a strange stoicism, 

they say. Not a tear on her face, they tell 
me. But if I know anything of human 
nature she is suffering all the more for that, 
poor girl ! " 

Gordon threw off the counterpane and 
rose in bed. "I'm better now," he said. 
" Let me get up. I must go out." 

"Impossible!" said the surgeon. "You 
are far too weak to go into the streets. 
Besides, you would never reach your destina- 
tion. Macfarlane would take care of that. 
Haven't I told you? He has given it out 
that the penalty of military law for the least 
of your offences is — well, death ! " 

Gordon dropped back in bed and the 
surgeon continued : " But if you have a 
message to send to anyone, why not write it? 
Michael will see that it reaches safe hands. 
I'll send him in. He's cooking some food 
for you, and I'll tell him to bring paper 
and pens." 

With that the surgeon left him, and a 
moment later the servant-man's cheery face 
came into the room behind a smoking basin 
of savoury broth. 

" Here it is ! You're to $up it at once," 
he said, and then, taking a writing-pad from 
under his arm-pit, he laid it with pens and 
ink on a table by the bed, saying the doctor 
had told him he was to deliver a letter. 

Gordon replied that he would ring when 
he was ready, whereupon Michael said, 
"Good! You'll take your broth first. It 
will put some strength into you," and so he 
smiled and nodded his simple face out of the 

In vain Gordon tried to write to Helena. 
His first impulse was to tell her all, to make 
a clean breast of everything : " Dearest 
Helena, — I am in the deepest sorrow and 
shame, but I cannot live another hour without 
letting you know that your dear father ..." 

But that was impossible. At a moment 
when one great blow had fallen on her, it 
was impossible to inflict another If she 
suffered now, when she thought her father 
had died by the hand of God, how much 
more would she suffer if she heard that his 
death had been due to violence, to foul play, to 
the hand of the man who said he loved her ? 

Destroying his first attempt, Gordon began 
again: "My poor, dear Helena, — I am 
inexpressibly shocked and grieved by the 
news of . . ." 

But that was impossible also. Its hypocrisy 
of concealment seemed to blister his very 
soul. He tried again and yet again, but not 
a word would come that was not cruel or 
false. Then a ^reat trembling came over 




him as he realized that being what he was to 
Helena, and she being what she was to 
her father, he was struck dumb before her 
as by the hand of Heaven. 

Hours passed, and though the day was 
bright a deep, impenetrable darkness seemed 
to close around him. At certain moments he 
was vaguely conscious of noises in the streets 
outside, a preatly scuttling and scurrying of 
feet, a loud clamour of tongues chopping and 
ripping the air, the barking and bleating 
of a mob in full flight, and then the clattering 
of horses' hoofs and the whistling and shout- 
ing of soldiers. 

Michael came back of himself at last, 
having waited in vain to be summoned, and 
his mouth was full of news. All business in 
Cairo had been suspended, the Notables had 
met in the Opera square to condemn the 
action of the British Army, a vast multitude 
of Egyptians had joined them, and they had 
gone up to the house of the Grand Kadi to 
ask him to call on the Sultan to protest to 

44 Well, well ? *' said Gordon. 

44 The Kadi was afraid, and, hearing the 
crowd were coming, he barricaded his doors 
and windows." 

"And then?" 

" They wrecked his house, shouting, 
1 Down with the Turks ! ' ' Long live 
Egypt ! ' But the Kadi himself was inside, 
sir, speaking on the telephone to the 
officer commanding on the Citadel ; and they 
came galloping up and took a hundred and 
fifty prisoners." 

In spite of his better feelings Gordon felt 
a certain joy in the bad news Michael brought 
him. He had been right ! Everybody would 
see that he had been right ! What, then, 
was his duty ? His duty was to deliver him- 
self up and say, " Here I am ! Court-martial 
me now if you will — if you dare ! " 

Plain, practical sense seemed to tell him 
that he ought to go to the Agency, where his 
father — seeing the turn events had taken, the 
chaos into which affairs had fallen, and the 
ruin which Macfarlane's brutality and incom- 
petence threatened — would place him in 
command pending instructions from the 
War Office, and trust to his influence with 
the populace to restore peace. He could 
do it, too. Why not ? 

But the General? A sickening pang of 
hope shot through him as he told himself 
that no one knew he had killed the General, 
that even if he had done so it had only been 
in self-defence, that the veriest poltroon 
would have done what he did, and that the 

mind that counted such an act as crime was 
morbid and diseased. 

Helena? She thought her father had died 
by the visitation of God. Why could he not 
leave her at that ? She was suffering, though, 
and it was for him to comfort her. He 
would fly to her side. All their differences 
would be over now. She, too, would see 
that he had been right and that her jealousy 
had been mistaken, and then Death with its 
mighty wing would sweep away everything 

Thus in the blind labouring of hope he 
threw off the counter[>ane again and got out 
of bed, whereupon Michael, whose garrulous 
tongue had been going ever since he came 
into the room, first asking for the letter which 
the surgeon had told him to deliver, then 
protesting in plaintive tones that the broth 
was untouched and now it was cold, laid hold 
of him and said : — 

44 No, brother, no ! You cannot get up 
to-day. Doctor says you must not, and if 
you attempt to do so I am to tell the 

But Michael's voice only whistled by 
Gordon's ear like the wind in a desert sand- 
storm, and, seeing that Gordon was deter- 
mined to dress, the good fellow fled off to 
fetch his master. 

Hardly had Michael gone when the barren- 
ness of his hope was borne down on Gordon's 
mind, and he was asking himself by what 
title he could go out as a champion of the 
right, being so deeply in the wrong. Even if 
everything happened as he expected, if his 
threefold offence against the letter of military 
law were overlooked in the light of his 
obedience to its spirit, if the Consul-General 
placed him in command pending instruc- 
tions from the War Office, and if he restored 
order in Cairo by virtue of his influence with 
the inhabitants — what then ? 

What of his conscience, which had 
clamoured so loud, in relation to his own 
conduct ? Could he continue to tell himself 
that what he had done in the General's house 
had been in self-defence? Had it been 
in selfdefence that he had returned to 
the Citadel after he was ordered to his own 
quarters ? Or that he had hurled hot and 
insulting words at the General, such as no 
man could listen to without loss of pride, or 
even self-respect? 

And then Helena ? With what conscience 
could he comfort her in her sufferings, being 
himself the cause of them? With what sin- 
cerity could his tongue speak if his pen re- 
fused to write? And if he juggled himself 




into deceiving her, could he go on, as his 
affections would tempt him to do — now more 
than ever since her father was gone and she 
was quite alone — to carry out the plans he 
had made for them before these fearful events 

A grim vision rose before him of a shame- 
ful life, corrupted by hypocrisy and damned 
by deceit, in which he was married to Helena, 
having succeeded to her father's rank and 
occupying his house, his room, his office, with 
one sight standing before his eyes always — 
the sight of the General's body lying on the 
floor where he had flung it. 

Gordon dropped back to the bed and sat 
on the edge of it, doubled up, and with his 
hands covering his face. How long he sat 
there he never knew, for his mind was 
deadened to all sense of time, and only at 
intervals of lucidity was he partly conscious 
of what was going on outside the little pulse- 
less place in which he was hidden away while 
the world went on without him. 

At one moment he heard the bells of the 
Coptic cathedral ringing for evensong; then 
the light pattering as of rain when the people 
passed over the paveqient into the church ; 
and then suddenly there came a sound that 
seemed to beat on his very soul. 

It was the firing of the guns at the 
Citadel, and as a soldier he knew what they 
were — they were the minute-guns for the 
General's funeral. Boom — boom 1 He could 
see what was taking place as plainly as if his 
eyes beheld it : the square of the mosque 
lined up with troops — two battalions of 
infantry, one regiment of cavalry, and two 
batteries of artillery. Boom — boom! The 
coffin on the gun-carriage covered with the 
silken Union Jack and with the General's 
sword and his plumed white helmet on the 
top of all. Boom— boom! The General's 
charger immediately behind the body, with 
his spurred boots in the stirrups reversed. 
Boom — boom — boom! The officers of the 
Army of Occupation drawn up by the door 
of the General's house— every one of them 
that could be spared from duty except him- 
self, who ought, above all others, to be there. 
Then the carriages of the Consul- General and 
of the Egyptian Prime Minister, and then 
boom — boom — boom — boom ! as the cortege 
moved away to the slow swirling of the Funeral 
March, through the square of the mosque 
and under the gate of the old fortress. 

The firing ceased, and in the dumb empti- 
ness of the air Gordon saw another sight that 
tore at his heart still more terribly. It was 
a room in the General's house, dark and 

blind with curtains drawn, and Helena 
sitting there, alone for the first time, and no 
one to comfort her. Seeing this, and think- 
ing of the barrier that was between them— of 
the blood that was dividing them— and that 
they could never again come together, all his 
manhood went down at last, and he burst 
into tears like a boy. 

" Forgive me, Helena ! I am alone, too ! 
Forgive me — forgive me ! " 

Then over the sound of his own voice he 
heard the innocent voices of the choir-boys 
singing their evening hymn, " Remove my 
sin from before Thy sight, O God ! " and at 
the next moment he was conscious of an old 
and wrinkled hand being laid on his bare 
arm and of somebody by his side, who was 
saying, huskily, " Peace, my son ! God is 
merciful ! " 

Then the sharp rattle of three volleys of 
musketry coming from far away. 

The body of the General had been com- 
mitted to the grave. 

Helena had been in the act of sending out 
her letter when the General's aide-de-camp 
came in with news of the doings of the night 
before— the riot at El Azhar, Gordon's assault 
on Colonel Macfarlane, and then his dis- 
appearance, before the troops could recover 
from their surprise, as suddenly and unac- 
countably as if he had been swallowed up by 
the earth. 

"Of course, Macfarlane acted like a 
brute," said the young lieutenant, " and the 
Colonel did exactly what might have been 
expected of him under the circumstances. 
He would have done the same if the offender 
had been the Commander-in-Chief himself. 
But now he has to pay the penalty, and 
it cannot be a light one. Macfarlane is 
scouring the city to find him— every nook 
and corner of the Mohammedan quarter. 
He has two motives for doing so, too — 
ambition and revenge.'* 

As Helena tore up her letter and dropped 
it bit by bit into the waste-paper basket she 
felt as if the last of her hopes dropped with 
it. But they rose again with the thought 
that though Gordon might be in danger he 
could not be afraid, and that his love for her 
was so great, so unconquerable, that it would 
bring him back to her now in her time of 
trouble, in the teeth of death itself. 

In this confidence, never doubting that 
Gordon would come, she sat in the semi- 
darkness of her room during the preparations 

for ^Mmwm a " thiu "• 



being done outside with that supernatural 
acuteness which comes to the bereaved — 
the marching of troops, the rolling of the 
gun carriage, and the arrival of friends, as 
well as the soul-crushing booming of the 
minute-gun. She was waiting to be told that 
Gordon was there, and was listening for his 
name as her black boy darted in and out 
with whispered news of Egyptian Ministers, 
English Advisers, inspectors, and judges, and, 
finally, the Consul-General himself. 

When the last moment came and the band 
of the Guards had begun to play " Toll for 
the Brave," and it was certain that Gordon 
had not come, her heart sank low ; but then 
she told herself that, if he ran the risk of 
arrest, that was reason enough why he should 
not show himself at the fortress. 

" He will be at the chapel instead," she 
thought, and, though she had not intended 
to be present at the funeral, she determined 
that she would go. 

She was put into a carriage with the 
Consul-General and sat by his side without 
speaking, merely looking through the win- 
dows at the crowds that stood in the streets, 
quietly, silently, but without much grief on 
their faces, and listening to the slow squirling 
of the " Dead March," and the roll of the 
muffled drums, over the dull rumbling of the 
closed coach. ; 

When they/ reached the cemetery in 
the desolate quarter of old Cairo, and the 
band stopped and the drumming ceased, and 
she stepped out of the carriage, and the 
breathing silence of the open air was broken 
by the tremendous words, " I am the Resur- 
rection and the Life," she was sure, as she 
took the arm of the Consul-General and 
walked with him over the crackling gravel to 
the door of the chapel, that the moment she 
crossed its threshold the first person she 
would see would be Gordon. 

Her heart sank lower than ever when she 
realized that he was not there, and after she 
had taken her seat and the chill chapel had 
filled up behind her and the service began, 
she tried in vain, save at moments of poignant 
memory, to fix her mind on the awful errand 
that had brought her. 

11 He will be at the graveside," she thought. 
No one would arrest him at a place like that. 
English soldiers were English gentlemen, and 
if the Arab nobleman in the desert could 
allow the enemy who had stumbled into his 
tent at night to get clear away in the morn- 
ing, Gordon would be allowed to stand by 
the grave of his friend and General, and no 
one would know he was there. 
Vol JwcviL-33- 

When the short service was over and the 
Consul-General drew her hand through his 
arm again, and they walked together over the 
gravel and through the grass to the open 
grave behind the rose bushes that grew near 
to the wall, she thought she knew she had 
only to raise her eyes from the ground and 
she would see Gordon standing there, shaken 
with sobs! 

She knew, too, that the moment she saw 
him she would break down altogether, so she 
kept her head low as long as she could. But 
when the troops had formed in a rectangle 
and the chaplain had taken his place and the 
last words had been spoken, and through a 
deeper hush the bugle had led the voices of 
the soldiers with : — 

Father, in thy sacred keeping 
Leave we now thy servant sleeping, 

and she looked up at last and saw that 
Gordon had not come at all, she felt as if 
something that had been soft and tender had 
broken within her and something that was 
hard and bitter had taken its place. 

While the volleys were being fired over the 
grave the officers of the Army came up to 
her one by one — brave men all of them, but 
many of them hardly able at that moment to 
speak or see. Still she did not weep, and 
when the Consul-General, with twitching lips, 
said, "Let us go," she gave him her hand 
again, though it was limp and nerveless now, 
and, under her long black glove, as cold as 

The blinds were drawn up in her room 
when she returned to the Citadel, and with 
eyes that did not see she was staring out on 
its far view of the city, the Nile, the pyramids, 
and the rolling waves of desert beyond, when 
a knock came to the door and the Consul- 
General entered. He was clearly much 
affected. His firm mouth, which often looked 
as if it had been cast in bronze, seemed now 
to be blown in foam. 

" Helena," he said, " the time has come to 
speak plainly. I am sorry. It is quite un- 

After the first salutation she continued to 
stand by a chair and to stare out of the 

" Gordon has gone. I can no longer have 
any doubt about that. Others, with other 
motives, have been trying to find him and 
have failed. I have been trying too, with better 
purposes, perhaps, but no better results." 

His voice was hoarse ; he was struggling to 
control it. 

" I am now satisfied that whenbc.ieft this 

•mffififflflifeiiaii' ■ ,hepai °" 11 

2 S 8 


tlNF. \\\ DM-. 

perhaps unnecessary, scene of his . . . 
his degradation, he took the advice your 
father gave him — to fly from Egypt and hide 
his shame in some other country." 

He paused for a moment and then said:— 

u It was scarcely proper advice, perhaps ; 
but who can be hot and cold, wise and angry, 
in a moment ? Whatever the merits of your 
father's counsel, I think Gordon made up 
his mmd to follow it. Only as the conduct 
of a despairing man who knew that all was 
over can I explain his last appearance at 
El Arfiar." 

Again he paused for a moment, and then, 
after clearing his throat, he said :— 

** i tk> not ibrnk' we shall see him again, 
J do not think I wsh to see him. A military 

Court would probably hold him responsible 
for the blood that has been shed during the 
past twenty four hours, thinking the encourage 
ment he gave the populace had led them to 
rebel Therefore its judgment upon his 
offences as a soldier could hardly be less 
than . . . than the most severe T! 

His voice now sounded choked It was 
scarcely audible as he added, 4L That would 
be harder for me to bear than to think of him 
as dead. Therefore, whatever others may be 
doing — his mother or . . . or yourself, I am 
cherishing no illusions My son is gone. 
His career is at an end. Let us . , , please 
let us say no more on the subject." 

Helena did not reply. Her bosom was 
stirred by her rapid breathing, but she 



continued to stare out of the window. After 
a moment the Consul- General said, more 
calmly : — 

" Have you any plans for the future ? " 

Helena shook her head. 

" No desire to remain in Egypt ? n 

" No." 

" Any relatives or friends in England ? " 


" H'm ! All the same, I think it will be 
best for you to return home." 

Helena bowed without speaking. 

" The sooner the better, perhaps." 

"Very well." 

"This is Sunday. There is a steamship 
from Alexandria on Saturday — will it suit 
you to sail by that?" 

" Yes." 

" One of my secretaries shall make arrange- 
ments and see you safely aboard. Meantime, 
have no anxieties. England will take care of 
your father's daughter." 

Then he rose, and, taking her ice-cold 
hand, he said : — 

" I think that is all. Til come up on 
Saturday morning to see you off. Good-bye 
for the present." And then, in the same hoarse 
voice as before, looking steadfastly into her 
face for a moment, "God bless you, my girl ! " 

For some minutes Helena did not move 
from the spot on which Lord Nuneham had 
left her. A sense of double bereavement had 
fallen on her for, the first time with a crushing 
blow. That some day she would lose her 
father was an idea to which her mind had 
long been accustomed, but never for one 
moment until then — not even in the bitter 
hour in which they had parted at the door — 
had she allowed herself to believe that a time 
would come when she would have to live on 
without Gordon. It was here now. The 
past and the future alike were closed to her. 
A black curtain had fallen about her life. If 
Gordon could not return without the risk of 
arrest, what right had she to expect him to 
come back to her at all ? He was gone. He 
was lost to her. She was alone. 

The city, which had been lying hot in the 
quivering sun, began to grow red and hazy, 
and in the gathering twilight Helena became 
conscious of criers in the streets below. The 
black boy, who was always bustling about 
her, interpreted their cries. They were 
crying the funeral of the students who had 
fallen at El Azhar. It was to take place 
that night. Ishmael Ameer called on the 
people to gather in the great marketplace 
of Mohammed Ali and walk up by torchlight 
to the Arab cemetery outside the town. 

" Would lady like Mosie go and see? Then 
Mosie come back and tell lady everything," 
said the black boy, and in the hope of being 
alone Helena allowed him to go. 

But hardly had the boy gone when a timid 
knock came to her door, and the Army 
surgeon entered the room. The man's thin 
lips were twitching, and he was clearly ill at 

" Excuse me," he said, " but hearing you 
were soon to leave for home ... I thought 
it only fair to myself ... In fact, I have 
come to make an explanation." 

" What is it ? " asked Helena, without a 
trace of interest in her tone. 

The surgeon gnawed the ends of his 
moustache for an instant, and then, looking 
uneasily at Helena, he said : — 

" When you come to turn things over in 
your mind you may, perhaps, think I was to 
blame in keeping your dear father's secret. 
His condition, however, was not so serious 
but that under ordinary circumstances — I say 
ordinary circumstances — he might have lived 
five years, ten years, even fifteen. The truth 
is, though . . ." 


" I want to prove the sincerity of my 
friendship, Miss Graves. I am sure you 
prefer that I should speak plainly." 

"The truth is— what?" asked Helena, 
who was now listening with strained atten- 

"That . . . that your dear father's death 
... I am now fully convinced of it . . . 
was due . . . partly due, at all events . . . 
to circumstances that . . , that were not 

Helena's pale face turned white, but she 
made no answer, and after a moment the 
surgeon said : — 

" It would have been cruel to tell you this 
last night, immediately after the shock of 
your bereavement, but . . . but now that you 
are going away . . . Besides, I spoke to 
Lord Nuneham. I mentioned my surmises. 
But you know what he is ... a great man, 
undoubtedly a great man, but incapable of 
taking counsel. Always has been, always 
will be ; we all of us find it so." 

Helena, seized with an indefinable fear, 
was speechless ; but the surgeon's blundering 
tongue went on. 

" Better not speak of it," said Lord Nune- 
ham. " Drop it ! Don't let us weaken our 
case against the man and rouse popular fury 
by an accusation we cannot possibly bring 

home ffeift get hol( ^ of hirn t0 



Helena's heart was beating violently, but 
she only said, with laboured breathing : — 

" Can't we dispense with all this ? You 
have come to tell me that my father did not 
die from natural causes — isn't that it?" 

" Yes . . . that is to say . . . pardon me 
... we are alone ? " 

Helena bowed impatiently. 

"Then, to tell you the truth . . I am 
satisfied that violence ... as a contributing 
cause, at all events ... I looked at him 
again this morning when ... at the last 
moment, in fact . . . and the marks were 
even plainer than before." 

" Marks ? " 

" Marks of a man's hand about the throat." 

" A man's hand ? " said Helena, with her 
lips, rather than with her voice. 

44 1 thought at first it might have been the 
General's own hand, but there was one 
peculiarity which forbade that inference." 

44 Tell me." 

" It was the left hand, and while the thumb 
and the first, second, and fourth finders were 
plainly indicated, there was no impression 
made by the third." 

44 So ? " 

" So I concluded that the marks about the 
throat must have been made by somebody 
who had lost the third finger of his left hand." 

Helena gazed a long time blankly into the 
surgeon's face, until at length, frozen by fear, 
having said all, he tried to convey the impres- 
sion that he had said nothing. 

44 Miss Graves, I have given you pain. I 
feel I have. And mind, I do not say cer- 
tainly that the hand at your father's throat 
was the cause of his death. It may have 
been used merely to push him off. But if 
the person seen last in the General's com- 
pany was apparently quarrelling with him . . . 
Please understand, I make no accusations. I 
have never met Ishmael Ameer. And even if 
it should be found that he has this peculi- 
arity ... of the third finger, I mean . . . 
In any case, the Consul-General will not hear 
of an indictment, so I'm sure . . . I'm sure 
I can rely on your discretion. But hearing 
you were going home, I felt I could not allow 
you to think that I had permitted your dear 
father ..." 

The surgeon went stammering on for some 
time longer, but Helena did not listen, and 
when at last the man backed himself out of 
her room, hugging his shallow soul with the 
flattering thought that in following his selfish 
impulse he had done well, she did not hear 
him go. 

She was now sure of a, fact which she had 

hitherto only half suspected. The Egyptian 
had killed her father ! Killed him — there 
was no other w r ord for it— not merely by the 
excitement his presence engendered, but by 
actual violence. The authorities knew it, 
too; they knew it perfectly, but they were 
afraid — afraid, in the absence of conclusive 
evidence, to risk the breakdown of a charge 
against one whom the people in their blind- 
ness worshipped. 

The sky had grown blue and luminous by 
this time, the stars had come out in the 
distant depths of the heavens, and from the 
market place below the ramparts of the 
Citadel there came up into the clear air 
the thick murmuring of the vast multitude 
that had gathered there, with ten thousand 
smoking torches, to follow the new prophet to 
the Arab cemetery beyond the town. 

When Helena thought of the Egyptian 
again it was with an intensity of hatred she 
had never felt before. He had not only 
killed her father, but he had been the first 
cause of the devilish entanglement which had 
led to Gordon's disgrace. Yet he was to 
escape punishment for these offences ; he was 
to go on until some sin against the State had 
brought him into the meshes of its Ministers, 
while her father was in his grave and Gordon 
was in banishment and she . . . she was 
sent home in her womanish helplessness and 
shame ! 

44 O God, is there to be no one to punish 
this man? "she thought, in the dark searching 
of her soul, while her finger-nails were digging 
trenches in her palms, and from the hard 
clenching of her teeth her lips were bleeding. 

Then suddenly, in the delirium of her 
hatred of the Egyptian and the tragic tangle 
of her error, while she was standing alone 
in her desolate room, with the 44 La ilaha 
illa-llah ! " of Ishmael's followers surging up 
from below, a new feeling — a feeling she had 
never felt before — stirred in the depths of 
her abased and outraged soul. 

44 Shall I go back to England?" she asked 
herself. "Shall I? r 

As soon as Lord Nuneham reached the 
Agency he went up to his wife's room. The 
sweet old lady was sitting in her dressing- 
gown with her face to the windows on the 
west, while the Egyptian woman was combing 
out her thin white hair and binding it up 
for the night. The sun was gone, but the 
river and the sky were shining like molten 
gold, and a faint reflected glow shone on her 
soft, pale cheeks, 




"Ah, is it you, John?" she said, in a 
nervous voice, and while he was taking a 
seat she looked at him with her deep, slow, 
weary eyes as if waiting for an answer to a 
question she was afraid to ask. 

" Helena is going home, Janet," said the 
old man after a moment 

" Poor girl ! " 

"There is a steamship on Saturday. I 
thought it hetter she should sail by that." 

** Poor thing ! Poor darling ! * 

" Her will seems to be quite gone ; she 
agrees to everything." 

" Poor Helena ! " 

" I don't think she has shed a tear since 
her father died. It is extraordinary. She 
startles me — almost frightens me* Either she 
is a girl of aston- 
ishing character, 
or else . . ." 

" She has had 
a great shock, 
poor child. Only 
yesterday at this 
time her father 
was with her, 
and now . . ." 

"True — quite 

A hush fell 
upon alL Even 
Fatimah's comb 
was quiet It 
was almost as if 
a spirit were 
passing through 
the room. At 
length the old 
lady said: — 

"Any news 
of . . * 


"Would you 
tell me if there 
were ? " 

" If you asked 
me— yes." 

11 M y poor 

"Hafiz has 
inquired every- 
where. Nobody 
knows anything 
about him." 

" He will come 
back, though ! 
I am sure he 
will," said Lady 
Nuneham, with 

a nervous trill, and then a strange contrac- 
tion passed over the Consul-General's face, 
and he rose to go. 

" Well not speak about that again, Janet," 
he said; but full of the sweetest and bitterest 
emotion that comes to the human soul— the 
emotion of a mother when she thinks of the 
son that is lost to her — the old lady did not 

" I remember that his grandfather , - . It 
was in the early ' days of the Civil War, I 
think . , , He had done something against 
his General, I suppose . , ^ 

She had been speaking for some moments 
when Fatimah, who was standing behind, 
reached round to her ear and said : — 

" His lordship has gone, my lady," 


'HtS tXt 

Original from 




and then there was a sudden and deep 

The molten gold died out of the river and 
the sky, and in the luminous blue twilight the 
old lady got into bed. 

"Fatimah," she said, "do you think 
doctor would allow me to go up to the 
Citadel one day this week ? " 

" Why not, if the carriage were closed and 
the blinds down ? " 

"And, Fatimah?" 

"What is it, O my heart?" 

" What do you think the Consul-General 
meant when he said Helena frightened him ?" 

" I think he meant that she's one of the 
girls who do things when they're in trouble — 
drown themselves, take poison or some- 

" My poor Helena ! My poor Gordon ! " 

There was the rustling whisper of a prayer 
at the pillow, and then, for the weary and 
careworn old lady, another day slid into 
another night. 

Meantime Gordon, with a heart filled with 
darkness, sat huddled up on his bed in the 
little guest-room of the Coptic cathedral. 
On a table at his left a small, green-shaded 
lamp was burning, and on a chair at his right 
sat the saintly old Patriarch, gently patting 
his bare arm and trying in vain to comfort 

" Yes, God is merciful, my son, and it is 
just because we are such guilty creatures that 
our Lord came to deliver us." 

" But you don't know, father, you don't 
know," said Gordon. 

" Know what, my son ? " 

" You don't know what reason I have to 
reproach myself," said Gordon ; and then, 
catching by the sure instinct of a pure heart 
some vague sense of Gordon's position, the 
old man began to talk of confession, wherein 
the soul of man lays down its sins before 
God, and begins to feel as if it had wings. 

"On receiving the penitent's confession," 
he said, "it is the duty of the Coptic priest to 
take his sin upon himself just as if it were his 
own, and if I, my son . . ." 

" But you can't ! It's impossible. God 
forbid it," said Gordon, and then the saintly 
old soul, allowing that there were sacred 
places in the heart of man which only God's 
eye should see, spoke of atonement, whereby 
he that is guilty of any sin may begin his 
journey towards repentance, and be num- 
bered at last, if his penitence be true, among 
the living who live in God's peace. 

" Why should any of us, my son, no matter 
how foul the stain of sin we have contracted, 
live in the dread of miscarrying for ever while 
we have energy to atone ? " said the good 
old man, in his worn and husky voice ; and 
then the tides of Gordon's troubled mind, 
which had ebbed and flowed like the sea on 
a desolate shore under the blank darkness 
of a starless night, seemed to be suddenly 
brightened by a light from the morning. 

"Father," he said, "could you send for 
somebody ? " 

" Indeed I could— -who is it ? " asked the 

" Captain Hafiz Ahmed of the Egyptian 
Army. He can be found at head-quarters. 
Say that someone he knows well wishes to 
see him at once." 

" I'll tell Michael to take the message 
immediately," said the Patriarch, and his 
shuffling old feet went off on his errand. 

The new light that had dawned on Gordon's 
mind was the same as he had seen before, 
and yet it was now quite different. He would 
deliver himself up, as he had first intended to 
do, but in humility, not in pride — in submis- 
sion to the will of God, not defiance of the 
power of man. A reclaiming voice seemed 
to say to him, "Atone for your crime! 
Confess everything ! Die — on the gallows if 
need be ! Better suffer the pains of death 
than the furies of remorse ! Give your own 
life for the life you have taken, no matter 
by what impulse of self-defence or devilish 
accident of fate ! " 

Hafiz would carry his message to head- 
quarters, or perhaps help him to go there, 
and the good old Patriarch would explain 
why he had not gone before. It was the 
only way now, the only hope. 

Within half an hour Hafiz arrived hot and 
breathless, as if he had been running. One 
moment he stood near the door, while his lip 
lagged low and his cheerful face darkened at 
sight of Gordon's white cheeks, and then he 
gushed out into words which tried their best 
to be brave, but were tragic with tears. 

" I knew it," he said. " I've said so all 
day long, 'He's lying ill somewhere or he 
would show up now, whatever the conse- 
quences/ You're wounded, aren't you ? Let 
me see." 

" It's nothing," said Gordon. " Nothing 
at all. Sit down, old fellow," and then Hafiz 
sat on the right of the bed, holding Gordon's 
hand in his hand, and told him what had 
happened during the day— how Macfarlane 
and his bloodhounds had been out in pursuit 
of him, expecting to arrest and court martial 




him, and how he also had been searching for 
him since yesterday, but with the hope of 
helping him to escape. 

" High and low, we've looked everywhere — 
everywhere except here ; and who would 
have thought of a place like this ? " said 
Hafiz. " So much the better, though ! 
You'll stay here until you are well and I can 
get you safely away. I will, too ! You'll see 
I will ! " 

It was hard to listen to the good fellow's 
schemes for his escape and tell him at once 
of his intention to give himself up, so Gordon 
asked one by one the questions that were 
uppermost in his mind, little thinking that 
Hafiz's answers would break up his purpose 
and stifle for ever the cry of the voice of his 
tortured heart. 

"The General is buried, isn't he?" he 
said, turning his face away as he spoke, and 
when Hafiz answered " Yes," that he had died 
by the hand of God and been buried that 
afternoon, and that everybody was saying 
that he had been a good man and a great 
soldier, and Egypt would never again see his 
equal, Gordon asked himself what, after all, 
would be the worth of an atonement which 
offered as an equivalent for a life like the 
General's a life such as his own, which was no 
longer of any use to him or to anyone. 

And again, when he asked, in a low voice 
that was breathless with fear, how his father 
was, and Hafiz answered that the iron man 
whose name had been a terror in Egypt for 
so many years, though calm on the outside 
still, was breaking up like a frozen lake from 
below ; that he had been calling him over 
the telephone all day long, and entreating 
him to find his son, that he might tell him to 
deliver himself up immediately, in spite of 
everything, lest he should be charged with 
desertion and be liable to death, Gordon 
sickened with a sense of the shame into 
which he was about to plunge his father 
in his last days by the confession he 
intended to make and the fate he meant 
to meet. 

And, again, when with deepening emotion 
he asked about his mother — was she worse 
for the disgrace that had overtaken himself? — 
and Hafiz told him " No " ; that, though sitting 
in a sort of bewilderment, waiting for God's 
light in the darkness that had fallen on her 
life, she was yet living in a beautiful, blind 
hope that he would come back to justify him- 
self, and meantime sending messages to him 
saying, " Tell him his mother is sure he only 
did what he believed to be right," because her 
boy could not do what was wrong, Gordon's 

heart knocked hard at his breast with the 
thought that the brave atonement to which 
he had set his face would surely kill his 
mother before it had time to kill him. 

And when, last of all, in the sore pain 
of a wounded tenderness, he asked about 
Helena— was she well and was she asking 
after him ? — and Hafiz again answered " No/' 
but that he had seen her at the General's 
funeral — where he could not trust himself to 
speak to her for pity of the dumb trouble in 
her pale face — and that, leaning on the arm 
of the Consul-General, she had lifted her 
tearless eyes as if looking for somebody she 
could not see, and that she was to go back 
to England soon, very soon, on Saturday, 
without anyone for company, being alone in 
the world now — then Gordon broke down 
altogether, for he saw himself following her 
on her lonely journey home with a cruel and 
needless blow that would ruin the little that 
' was left of her peace. 

" On Saturday, you say ? " 

" Yes, by the P. and O. steamer from 
Alexandria," said Hafiz ; and then, eagerly, 
as if by a sudden thought, " Gordon ? " 


" Why shouldn't you go with her ? " 

Gordon shook his head. 

" But why ? You'll be better by that time, 
and even if you're not . . . You can't 
stay here for ever, and if you should fall into 
Macfarlane's hands . . . Besides, it's better 
in any case to let the War Office deal with 
you. They'll know everything before you 
reach London, and they'll see you've been in 
the right. You'll get justice there, Gordon, 
whereas here . . . Then there's Helena, 
too — she's expecting you to join her — I'm sure 
she is — why shouldn't she— being friendless 
in Egypt now, and without anybody to go to 
even at home ? And if the worst comes to 
the worst, and you have to leave the army, 
which God forbid, you'll be together at all 
events, she'll be with you, anyway ..." 

" No, no, my boy, no," cried Gordon, but 
Hafiz, full of his new hope, was not to be 

" You think it's impossible, but it isn't. 
Leave it to me. I'll arrange everything. 
Trust me," he said ; and in the warmth of 
his new resolve and the urgency of another 
errand he got up to go. 

The hundred and fifty Notables who had 
been arrested that morning before the Grand 
Kadi's house had been tried in the afternoon 
by a special tribunal, and dispatched in the 
evening as dangerous rebels to the penal 
seUlement.i^.th.e£pud?fl.- ,In protest against 



this injustice as well as in lamentation for the 
loss of the students who had fallen at El 
Azhar, lshmael Ameer had called upon the 
people of Cairo to follow him in procession 
to the Arabic cemetery outside the city, that 
there, without violence or offence, they might 
appeal from the barbarity of man to the 
judgment seat of God. 

" They've gone with him, too," said Hafiz, 
44 tens of thousands of them, so that the 
streets are deserted and half the shops shut 
up. Oh, they've not done with lshmael yet 
—you'll see they have not ! I must find out 
what he's doing, though, and come back and 
tell you what's going on. Meantime I'll say 
nothing about you — about knowing where 
you are, I mean — nothing to the Consul- 
General, nothing to my mother, nothing to 
anybody Good-bye, old fellow! Leave 
yourself to me. I'll see you through." 

Thus Hafiz went off in a rush of spirits, 
but Gordon, being left alone, sank to a still 
deeper depression, and felt as if he were 
thrown back again on that desolate shore 
where the tides of his mind ebbed and 
flowed under the blank darkness of a starless 

The proud atonement whereby he had 
expected to wipe out his crime had fallen 
utterly to ashes, and looked nothing better 
now than a selfish impulse to escape from a 
life that had become a burden to him by 
killing his father's honour, his mother's trust, 
and the last hope of Helena's happiness. 

But if death was denied to him, what was 
there left to him in life? His career as a 
soldier was at an end, his father's house was 
closed to him, and his days with Helena 
were over. Without work, without home, 
without love — what could he do, where could 
he go ? 

Then he remembered what the General 
had said when he told him to fly to some 
foreign country where men could know 
nothing of his disgrace. Cruel and unjust 
as that sentence had seemed to him then, it 
appeared to be all that was left to him now, 
and he had begun to ask himself if he could 
not put the world between him and his crime, 
little as he had intended to commit it, by 
burying himself as far away from humanity as 
possible, when he remembered that, though 
he might fly from the sight of men, he could 
not escape from the eye of God, and to be 
alone with that was more than the mind of 
man could bear and live. 

And when he asked himself why he could 
not go to America, for that was his mother's 

(To be continued.) 

home, and a country to which something had 
long been calling him, he told himself that 
though he might hide in New York or Boston, 
or Philadelphia, or Chicago, or San Francisco, 
better than in the trackless desert itself, yet 
in the very pulse of life, he would still be 
alone, with a mind rambling through the 
ways of the past, seeing nothing in the 
happiness of other men but cruel visions of 
what might have come to him also but for 
one moment of headstrong passion, helped 
out by the tangle of fate. 

Then he thought of Helena in England, 
alone like himself, cut off for the rest of her 
life from every happiness except the bitter 
one of her memory of their few short days 
together, thinking ill of him, as she needs 
must, for leaving her in her sore need, while 
all the time his heart was yearning with love 
for her, and he would have given his soul to 
be by her side, but for the barrier of blood 
which seemed to separate them for ever now. 

Thus in the great burden of his distress 
Gordon saw himself at last as one who could 
neither die in peace nor live in content, for 
the Almighty Majesty himself seemed to have 
set his face against both. And sometimes in 
the bitterness of his spirit he called on God 
to say what devil ruled the world, that he 
who had only intended to do right was so 
deeply in the wrong, that life seemed to be 
for ever closed against him, and sometimes 
in the depths of his abased penitence— never 
having prayed before since the days when his 
mother held him to her knee— he called on 
Heaven for light in the dark place in which 
he found himself alone. 

And "O God," he cried, "tell me what 
I am to do ! Show me a way of deliverance ! 
If I cannot die for my crime, let me live for 
my redemption ! Have pity on me and 
pardon me, miserable man that I am, who by 
one mad act have plunged both myself and 
all who love me in trouble. What can I do? 
Where can I go? Let it be anything or any- 
where. Only lead me, O Lord, lead me, for 
I am sinful and blind and weak." 

The green-shaded lamp on the table by his 
bed had died out by this time, the darkness 
of night had gone, and a dim gleam of 
saffron-tinted light from the dawn had begun 
to filter through the yellow window curtains 
of his room, when suddenly the silence of 
the little pulseless place was broken by the 
sound of eager footsteps running over the 
gravel path of the courtyard and leaping up 
the stone staircase of the house. 

It was Hafiz returning from the cemetery. 


The Light Side of Finance. 


HE Royal Exchange, the 
temple of the financial world 
in the greatest city of the 
Universe, is still being richly 
embossed with paintings by 
our leading artists depicting 
the great events that have brought about the 
supremacy of England through the medium 
of this historic building. Yet the many 
thousands who visit the Royal Exchange daily 
have very little idea, indeed, that this pile 
owes its origin to a curious, not to say a 
comic, cause. We owe it all to nothing else 
than the chirping of a grasshopper. The 
chirp of this insect attracted the atten- 
tion of a little boy who was " crawling un- 
willingly to school " to a baby, the son of a 
poor woman — so poor that she could not 
support the child, and therefore had left him 
to perish alone in a large field near her hovel. 
The little boy took the child home, and it 
was brought up and eventually blossomed 
into no less a person than Sir Thomas 
Gresham, who built the Royal Exchange. 
The prosperous merchant, to hand down to 
posterity the incident which saved his life, 
took the grasshopper for his crest, and that 
is the reason why that insect is placed, as 
everyone can see, over the Royal Exchange 
of London. 

There are, of course, captious critics who 
deny the veracity of this story, but to such 
persons the story of Dick Whittington and his 
cat is a myth too, and William Tell never 

The most trivial incidents have often 
originated the fortunes of our richest men. 
Take, for example, the fortunes made out 
of Bessemer steel. This genius, young 
Bessemer, had some idea of making steel out 
of iron, but a poor, newly-married young 
man has no means of experimenting on a 
large scale. The story I must tell as I have 
heard it from an intimate friend of Bessemer, 
a true tale which, by the way, I have never 
seen in print. After Bessemer had in his 
small laboratory experimented with the metals, 
and at last obtained the desired result, by 

Vol. xxxvii.— 34. 

blowing air through melted iron, he found in 
the bottom of the crucible a little lump of the 
famous steel. Now the question was, how to 
make the discovery public ? He put the lump 
of steel into his pocket and made his way to 
Nasmyth, of steam-hammer fame. Placing the 
metal on Nasmyth's desk he told him that he 
had made this extraordinary discovery, which 
would revolutionize the whole metal world. 
Then came a little incident which shows 
what wonderful heads these Scotch financiers 
possess. What do you think Nasmyth said 
to this excited inventor ? 

" Eh, mon, it's vary risky to show your 
wonderful invention. The world is vary 

To which the aspiring inventor replied : — 

"Right, Mr. Nasmyth. I just calculated 
whom I was coming to see, so with my last 
half-crown I registered the invention on my 

But this is an interlude. What I was 
coming to was how he made his invention 
public. The Iron and Steel Institute was 
celebrating its annual meeting just at that 
time. He went to the country town in which 
it was being held, but to his chagrin found 
that the syllabus was complete and no other 
subject could be introduced. He, however, 
pleaded so hard that the secretary said he 
would put the subject on the proceedings 
before business began in the morning, and he 
could read his paper on his new invention if 
he liked. 

Bessemer was delighted, and the next 
morning he came down to breakfast at the 
hotel full of anticipation and confidence. 
He ordered two boiled eggs, because it was 
the cheapest breakfast, and while waiting for 
them he listened to the conversation of two 
men seated at the same table. 

" YouVe down pretty early, old chap, aren't 
you ? " said one to the other. 

" Yes. Some idiot says he has discovered 
how to make steel out of iron. The curtain 
on our proceedings begins with this panto- 
mime this morning. Generally the farce 
comes at the: end of the play." 




" Strange to say/' said the other, " it's the 
very thing that has got me up so early. It 
does one good to have a laugh in the 
morning. We don't extract much humour 
out of our proceedings as a rule/* 

The two eggs arrived, but poor Bessemer 
was so overcome by what he had heard that 
he told the waiter to keep them for his lunch. 

The other act in the comedy was when 
Bessemer rose before the small and early 
audience to read his paper. He found he 
was tongue-tied j and could not express hinv 

with his wonderful discovery, and asked him 
all about himself. When they heard thai he 
was penniless, and was, therefore, unable to 
experiment, they said they would finance him. 
One of them said that he was convinced the 
discovery was of tremendous value, and he 
would back his opinion by giving up half his 
ironworks to Bessemer to carry out his in- 
vention if he would give him one-half per 
cent, on the proceeds for a number of years. 
The other man was a financier. He said 
that he would give Bessemer a thousand 


self, nor could he read what he had prepared. 
So, after fumbling about for a long time, 
embarrassed by the tittering of those in front, 
he put his hand in his coat-tail pocket, 
slammed the lump of steel on the table and 
said, "That's what I've made, and I'll tell 
you how I've made it." And without any 
ornamentation of language he briefly and 
clearly told his story. He then went back to 
the hotel and called for those two eggs. 

Before he had finished them in walked the 
two gentlemen who had sat at the same table 
with him at breakfast. They were profuse in 
their apologies for the flippant remarks they 
had made, and assured Bessemer they had 
no idea who he was or they would not 
have expressed themselves as they did, They 
assured him also that they were most impressed 

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pounds down and a large sum per annum 
for a term of years if he would give him one 
per cent, on the profits. Sufficient to say that 
both these gentlemen retired as millionaires 
long before they expected to, 

I remember dining one night with a friend 
of mine at a public restaurant, when a fine, 
handsome, middle-aged man, who was enter- 
taining a party at another table, shook him 
by the hand as he passed, and wished him 
good evening. My friend thought I should 
be interested in hearing who this man was. 
He told me that his father was a native of 
his town- He worked barefooted in a little 
shop, in which he made the extraordinarily 
thin wire used for Davy lamps, and such things, 
assisted by his two sons. These sons were of 
an inventive turn of mind, and thought that 




they would invent a machine to do their 
father's work. With borrowed capital they 
had one made and put up in the loft. But, 
to their sorrow, and to the loss of their 
friend's money, it would not work. 

One of the sons remained at the bench 
with his father, and the other went to 
Australia to seek his fortune in another way. 
He got on so well that he sent for his brother 
.to come over and join him. The brother 
thought that he would sell the huge machinery 
for old iron, but before doing so he began 
to oil it and play about with it, wondering 
why it would not work. Before he had 
ceased wondering, however, to his surprise 
the machinery, which had settled down in 
the meantime, began to work and turned out 
the wire to perfection. The other brother 
was cabled for, and it was he who was dining 
at the next table. 

The one qualification necessary to small 
beginnings becoming great enterprises is 
thrift and carefulness, bordering on parsi- 
mony. In fact, with these qualifications one 
need not be a lucky inventor or a mere child 
of fortune. Parsimony alone will make a 
fortune, if one can only hit upon some article 
of commercial value. To illustrate what I 
mean I may mention the case of Ostervald, 
the son of a celebrated minister in Neufchatel. 
Young Ostervald started life as a bank clerk, 
having to depend upon his own resources, 
and a bank clerk's pay barely supplies the 
necessaries of life. In Ostervald's case so 
little did he receive that he made his supper 
every evening on a small bottle of beer, 
which he partook of in an obscure alehouse. 
That small bottle, however, was sufficient to 
inspire him. He never failed to carry away 
the cork of the bottle, as well as every 
cork which he could lay hold of. These 
he took home with him to his wretched 
garret, in a corner of which was a huge 
cask, into which he flung the corks. At 
the end of seven or eight years this cask 
was full of corks, and its contents pro- 
duced him a hundred crowns. With this 
money he went to Paris and started to make 
his fortune. He still lived in a garret, it is 
said, to avoid paying public taxes ; he still 
had his food in an obscure tavern, and never 
spent more than a shilling on a meal. His 
parsimony was uppermost in his mind to his 
dying moment. He refused to pay a livre 
for soup, and yet under his pillow was found 
eight hundred thousand livres of assignats. 
In all he left about two millions and a half 
of livres, and it all went, as so often is the 
case with parsimonious and successful men, 

Digitized by Li OO^ J C 

to distant relations whom he had never 

To artists, in whatever walk of life, it is 
such tales as these which honestly make us 
envious. We are always inventing, always 
making some discovery, but it is always in 
the world of fancy, which does not lead to 

The stories I know of the financial side of 
art would fill a volume, and four-fifths of the 
true tales I have culled from a life spent in 
art have a light side to them. 

Picture-dealers are shopmen, and have a 
right to sell their wares at the biggest profit ; 
but there are artists who can rival them. 
Cooper was one. His studio was a manu- 
factory. His pictures were much of a much- 
ness. He had certain cows and sheep, which 
he traced and introduced into one picture 
after another in such a way as to know his 
own composition and yet never repeat it. He 
was so easily copied that many spurious 
Coopers flooded the market, and the wary old 
Canterbury painter made a charge for giving 
his guarantee to his own works. One dealer 
to whom Cooper owed a grudge travelled 
down to Canterbury with a " Cooper " under 
his arm. He had just sold it for a good 
price, but required a guarantee. 

"You have no objection to oblige me?" 
said the dealer. 

" Not at all," replied Cooper, " but first 
pay my fee — five guineas^ — thanks. Now, 
sir, you go home and burn that, for I never 
painted it ! " 

Some artists, as I have said, have the 
financial instinct strongly developed. An 
incident in point comes to my mind as I 
write. A well-favoured member of the Royal 
Academy received a visit from a dealer about 
his "subject picture," just ready for the 
Burlington House Exhibition, while he was 
finishing a portrait — painting the coat and 
hands — from a model who was at the same 
period sitting much to me. This model had 
to wear the fashionable outfit of the man 
whose portrait was in progress, with silk hat 
in one hand and rich fur overcoat over the 

When the dealer was announced the 
comedy began. The painter rushed in to 
see him — carefully leaving the second studio 
door open sufficiently to allow the dealer to 
see the " gentleman " there. 

" I am so sorry," cried the artist, " but I 
am engaged — a rich amateur has called to 
buy this picture." 

" But / must have it ! " said the dealer. 

" Just too late, I fear," replied the artist. 




" What does he offer ? " 

" Let me see," whispered the artist, as he 
ran back to his model. There was a short 
conversation, and he was back again to the 
dealer. "Two thousand pounds. Not a 
shilling more can I get out of him." 

" What's his name ? " asked the dealer. 

" He does not wish it to be known." 

" Well, I'll give you two thousand two 
hundred and fifty, and you put him off." 

The artist did so, and continued the sitting. 
In due course the model's work was done, 
and, as he was leaving the house, to his 
surprise the dealer came round the corner — 
he had been watching the house ever since he 
bought the picture — and raised his hat, but 
soon put it on again. The model was light- 
ing a clay pipe, and his clothes had seen 
better days — long, long ago. 

" Here's half a crown for you, my good 
man. Tell me, when is that swell coming 
out who has just been buying a picture ? " 

11 1 am he ! " replied the model. " Good 
morning, sir." 

A well-known Academician sold a great 
number of his popular pictures to an un- 
known man in the country, and eventually 
this patron invited the artist to visit him. My 
friend, a hypersensitive, somewhat foppish, 
society-spoiled individual, was horrified to 
find a cart waiting for him at the small 
station, a cart without springs, driven by a 
common-looking man who invited him to sit 
up beside him, and told the railway porter to 
"chuck" the gentleman's baggage into the cart. 
He drove my friend the artist over the unmade 
roads of a field to a white-washed farm-house. 
By that time my friend had discovered 
that his driver was his host, and when he 
alighted and stepped on to the sandy floor of 
the hall he looked round and saw his own 
pictures and those of other Academicians, 
bought at high prices, jammed up against 
each other, hanging on the walls of this 
unpretentious house. 

"I'll show you how I have made my 
money," said his admirer. "You see that 
factory over there ? Well, it's mine, and 
all it turns out are these little tin toys, a 
penny each, and nothing else. When I was 
at the other works, yonder, which make tin 
things, I used to pick up the cuttings thrown 
away, and make these little toys with my own 
hands, and sell them in the village. This 
grew and grew, and now I supply the world. 
With what I make out of them I buy your 

Accident often leads to fortune, and in no 
other phase of life does this make itself more 

Digitized by dOOQ IC 

evident than that relating to commerce. For 
instance, some years ago there lived in Pitts- 
burg a couple of youths, poor, neglected, and 
socially regarded as specimens of the sub- 
merged tenth. They slept in a shed near 
the railway track, where the traffic, the shunt- 
ing, and particularly the unloading of trucks, 
created such an incessant din that sleep was 
almost impossible. One of the lads, despair- 
ing of getting rest, went to the door of the 
shed and gazed upon the disturbers. By the 
aid of lanterns men were shovelling coal 
from the cars, the noise being terrific. But 
that noise brought him fortune. He thought 
of the uproar, the dust, and particularly the 
waste of energy in men doing what might be 
accomplished by the application of a simple 
device, and determined to save this labour. 
He never stopped until he had constructed 
an iron coal-car with a self-emptying shute 
at the bottom, and out of that invention he 
soon derived an enormous income. 

His little companion was equally fortunate. 
Being a cripple, he was wont to drag himself 
to the park and there occupy his mind in 
building castles in the air. But some of . 
those imaginary structures took tangible 
form. Noticing that all the hills were covered 
with cypress that was practically useless, he 
wondered how it might be turned to advan- 
tageous account. He secured a piece of 
bark and carried it back to his squalid room. 
From this piece of bark he invented a glue, 
.and this product of the apparently useless 
cypress brought him also a fortune. 

The more we think of it the more interest- 
ing it becomes to contemplate the part mere 
chance plays in financial coups. I have just 
mentioned some famous pieces of luck in 
making fortunes in business, but there are 
equally curious chances in private affairs upon 
which rests the getting or losing of fortunes. 

As an illustration of the latter I may 
record a perfectly true story. A very rich 
member of the aristocracy, without heirs or 
relatives of any kind, had taken a fancy to an 
acquaintance, and in time accepted him as 
guide, philosopher, and friend. He eventu- 
ally made a will leaving his acquaintance his 
entire property. The knowledge of this bred 
familiarity, and the lucky one unwisely took 
advantage of it — a fact possibly unnoticed by 
his decrepit old, would-be benefactor. How- 
ever, one day while driving over the estates, 
the old nobleman turned to his adopted heir, 
and pointing to some sheep asked to whom 
they belonged. 

" Well, you must be an old fool not to know 
your own sheep ! " was the reply. 




That one remark lost the speaker three 
hundred thousand pounds ! The " old fool " 
brooded over the remark, called in his lawyer, 
left half his fortune to charity, and divided the 
rest between the servants, leaving the man 
who called him an "old fool " the exact sum 
he had in his previous will left his man- 

Hogarth had a rich relation, an old lady 
who intended leaving him a fortune, but the 
great satirist painted her portrait in his well- 
known picture of Co vent Garden Market, 
entitled " Morning," and his name dis- 
appeared from the old lady's will* 

Many solicitors become rich by applying 
Mrs. Beeton's advice 1 " First catch your hare 

been equally kind she would divide it between 
the two. 

" Now, doctor, will you have a settled sum 
mentioned in your favour — three hundred 
pounds — or will you chance it, and take half 
of what I leave ? ?J 

The doctor looked round the room, and, 
judging from the surroundings and the old 
lady's dress and habits, decided that the three 
hundred pounds certain would be preferable. 

When the old lady's property was investi- 
gated after her death ihe apothecary received 
eighty thousand pounds ! 

The cleverest men sometimes make mis- 
takes in judging by appearances. That 
great Chancellor of the Exchequer, the 


and then cook it," to "First catch your rich old 
lady and then cook her accounts." Old ladies 
are frequently quite ignorant of their financial 
affairs* To prove how ignorant they are, and at 
the same time how lucky some people may be, 
I have often seen a certain rich man driving a 
pair of splendid horses through his property 
who, a few years ago, had not a stick to call 
his own, and dispensed drugs in a small shop 
in a provincial town. To him came an old 
lady with a cat. There was something the 
matter with the caL The chemist attended 
it, and eventually, possibly by a little judi- 
cious starvation, restored the old lady's pet 
to health. Not being well herself she 
called in a doctor. He, by better food 
and more of it, was equally successful with 
the old lady. In time the old lady confessed 
that she had no one to leave her money to, 
but as the doctor and the apothecary had 

Digitized by OOO 1 ^ 

late Mr. Gladstone, was among them. Mr. 
Gladstone was rich himself, but no one would 
imagine so if judged by his dress and habits. 
He wore shabby old clothes, hats, and boots, 
and even his State luncheons in Downing 
Street were of the most homely and meagre 
description. Yet it would appear that he, 
above all men, judged by appearances, if the 
following story, which I came across in 
the Hon- Lionel A. Toilemaehc's entertaining 
volume, " Old and Odd Memories," is true : — 
" Let me here relate a story about Miss 
Swanwick, which at least is bett travaio^ and 
which, relating as it does to one of her pleasant 
symposia, brings to my memory the various 
occasions when I myself partook of her 
hospitality. It is said that after an interview 
with her Mr, Gladstone, knowing her literary 
claims, and perhaps struck hy her somewhat 
homely, thought of placing her name 




on the Civil List : but it seemed to him safer, 
before speaking to her on the subject, to find 
out all he could about her income. Pend- 
ing the inquiry, he was somewhat startled by 
receiving a letter from her inviting him and 

It bo happened that a French merchant in 
Morocco received an order from a Jew for a 
large stock of three things — black hats, green 
shawls, and red silk stockings* This peculiar 
order the Jew, for some reason not stated, 


Mrs* Gladstone to dinner. The invitation was 
accepted, but the careful financier began to feel 
doubts whether he would be justified in offering 
a pension to a lady who could afford to give 
such an entertainment. At last he decided 
that his judgment on her case should be 
regulated by the quality of her dinner, and in 
particular that her poverty should be sub- 
jected to a sort of wine test. Would she, or 
would she not, provide champagne ? Un- 
luckily, so runs the tale, she had resolved to 
do full honour to her distinguished guest ; 
and as she saw him sipping his champagne 
little did she dream that her hospitality would 
cost her a grant from the public purse. Was 
ever wine bought so dear ! I need hardly 
add that the pension, if offered, would 
assuredly have been declined." 

Jews, the greatest financiers in the world, 
are, however, sometimes outwitted Shylock 
was a case in point. He had a right to 
demand his pound of flesh, but he w T as 
outwitted by Portia — unfairly, some may 
think. Still, Shylock's is a name made 
responsible for the sins of many Jews a 
thousand times worse than he. 

Perhaps the old story of the Jew merchant 
in Morocco, so old that one cannot say if it 
happened before or after Shy lock's day, will 
suffice to point out the worst side of the Jew 
and the most humorous sequel to his momen- 
tary success. 

Digitized by dOOQlC 

repudiated, and the French merchant was 
forced to bring an action against the Jew f 
which was duly tried before the Emperor of 
Morocco* The Jew swore that he had never 
given the order, and had no recollection of 
ever hearing of the French merchant before, 
The Emperor asked the Frenchman to pro- 
duce witnesses, but the merchant having 
none, he was non-suited. The Jew left the 
court, not without a stain upon his com- 
mercial character, for, from the Emperor to 
the doorkeeper, all in court knew that the 
Jew was untruthful However, he had the 
satisfaction of hearing the Emperor tell 
the French merchant that it was had for him 
not to have witnesses, and as he had none 
he might retire. 

The delight of the Jew was, however, short- 
lived He saw the merchant he had wronged 
crawl out of court a ruined man, and he saw 
his many friends waiting to congratulate their 
brother Jew on his signal success. That 
evening the broken-hearted merchant, hearing 
a turmoil in the street, ran to the window. The 
Emperor's officers were parading the streets 
and reading a proclamation at each corner: 
"Every Jew who, within four - and - twenty 
hours after this proclamation, shall be found 
in the streets without a black beaver hat on 
his head, a green shawl round his neck, and 
red silk stockings on his legs, shall be imme- 
diately seized and conveyed to the first court 




of our palace, to be there flogged to death," 
The merchant's goods were fought for by the 
Jews and bought at fabulous prices, and the 
Christian had the last smile. 

Great Britain no doubt owes its commer- 
cial greatness to the curious combination of 
its three nationalities : the solidity of the 
phlegmatic Englishman with his eye on trade, 
the financial mind of the calculating Scotsman, 
and the dash and verve of the irresponsible 

The Irish, although a few of them may 
have succeeded in finance in America and 

" Moike, Oi T m moighty thirsty*" 

"Dhry, did y 'say ? JJ 

11 Dhry ? Begorrah, just clap me back and 
see the dust come out of m J mouth ! " 

11 Well/* replied Mike t "y've got to kape 
dhry till we rache the race-coarse an J our 

" M Moighty foine talkin', Moike," remarked 
Pat. "Bedad, y 1 moight be a di-recthur iv 
the Bank iv Oireland ! " 

" It's no thin' fur nothing" replied Mike. 
" Iv yer aft her the dhrink, yell have to pay 


the Colonies, must take third place — one 
might include Wales and say fourth place — 
in the financial race at home. They show a 
certain acuteness in dealing, but the typical 
Irishman is almost devoid of financial instinct, 
A better illustration of this could not be 
found than the story of the two Irishmen 
who became partners in a small cask of 
whisky, which they agreed to carry several 
miles to a race- meeting, and there dispense 
the spirit at a good profit. Taking turns in 
carrying the cask, they proceeded along the 
hot, dusty roads. After a time Pat laid down 
the cask for his partner, Mike, to have his 
share of the labour. VViping his brow, he 
said : — 

M Av course, I will. Here's the six- 

Pat took his whisky, paid Mike for it with 
the only money in " the firm," and drank it 
like a "gintleman." Soon it was Mike's turn 
to feel "dhry." He laid the cask down and 
demanded refreshment 

"You'll have to pay furrit," said Pat, 
holding out his hand, and Mike duly paid the 
sixpence. And so it went on until, arriving 
in a muddled condition at the races late in 
the day, they found the cask as empty as 
their heads, for they could not understand 
why, as every drink was paid for, they were 
none the richer. The financial argument 
ended in a fight. 

by Google 

Original from 




NE kind of psychical manifes- 
tation always boasts a peculiar 
and popular attraction of its 
own. I refer to automatism, 
trance-writing, trance-speaking, 
trance-drawing, but especially 
to the last-named. We all admit that people 
occasionally perform things which are beyond 
the scope of their ordinary powers of achieve- 
ment. One has even heard of a man, who 
had hardly ever seen the inside of a watch, 
while in a hypnotic state taking one to pieces 
and replacing all its parts with the science 
and dexterity of a trained watchmaker. Just 
so have pictures been painted by persons 
utterly ignorant of the pictorial art, who in 
their normal moments could scarcely reach 
a higher level than that attained by the 
average infant of five or six summers. 

A good many years ago, away back in the 
middle 'seventies, no little sensation was 
caused by the feats of David Duguid, alias 
the "Glasgow painting medium." This man 
was by trade a cabinet-maker ; he could draw 
nothing recognisable by the most sympathetic 
intelligence — that is, not until he was in a 
trance, and then he produced excellent works 
of art which were declared to be hardly 
inferior to the old Dutch masters. Indeed, 
Duguid himself alleged that he worked 
under the influence of Jakob Ruysdael 
and Jan Steen. As for himself, he merely 
squeezed out the colours from the tubes and 
held a palette in his hand ; the spirits guided 
his brush as it swept deftly around the 
canvas until the resulting masterpiece was 
achieved. All the while Duguid's eyes were 
tightly closed, and he displayed symptoms of 
unconsciousness which could not easily be 

But, besides such cases as that of Duguid's, 
there are others of a different sort. Here we 
have an equal ignorance of draughtsmanship 
and an equally surprising skill in the trance. 
The results are, however, quite different. 
These are called "spirit-drawings." Some of 
the most striking "spirit-drawings" I have 
ever seen are those which accompany this 

Digitized by OOOgle 

article. They are the work of a humble 
policeman whose bona-fides can be sufficiently 
vouched for, a man who in his normal 
moments was destitute of any artistic 
talent whatever. Each of them exhibits 
what the late Mr. Myers called a "fusion 
of arabesque with ideography," resembling 
those "forms of ornamentation into which 
the artistic hand strays when, as it were, 
dreaming on the paper without definite plan," 
coupled with the weird symbolism of savages 
before they have evolved an alphabet. Fan- 
tastic they are — grotesque with a vengeance, 
with something more than a suggestion 
of Blake or Mr. Sime. Of the manner of 
their production, we are told that the 
man "liked to sit with his wife in the 
twilight. A pencil was placed in his hand 
when the signs of trance were noticeable, and 
he very soon began to sketch on sheets of 
paper supplied him. This continued for 
some time. When lights were brought it 
was found that he had made drawings of 
strange and unearthly objects. He made 
numerous designs, but nearly always of the 
same character. His power of drawing while 
in a trance lasted about one year, since when 
he has lost it completely. Although he still 
is subject occasionally to trance, his hand is 
as unable to draw as in his normal state." 

The first of the drawings here reproduced 
would seem to hint at some occult species 
of lepidoptera, distinguished with the coun- 
tenance of celestial mandarin or early 
Japanese Shogun. His body, or, more 
properly speaking, his bodies, for there are 
two of them, are striped, like a hornet, 
while there are other contrivances, perhaps 
alimentary, or possibly merely ornamental, in 
other organic directions. But the general 
impression is Oriental — nay, Chinese. What, 
however, constitutes the most extraordinary 
part of this production is the technique shown 
by the actual artist. There is here, as in the 
others, a perfection of stippling and shading 
and a freedom and delicacy of treatment 
usually only to be found in one who has 
studied carefully the art of drawing. 




This extraordinary trance- picture, "a fusion of Japanese Shogun with one of the species of lepidrYplera/' is, tike the 
others reproduced in this article, the work of a policeman with no natural artistic gift h vet it betrays a technical 
knowledge of draughtsmanship astonishing in one absolutely ignorant of even the rudiments oF drawing* 
Vol. xxxvii-35 


a 74 


Of a different 
character is the 
next drawing. The 
root idea in the 
su bconsc i t ) u s n e s s 
is probably that of 
a snail- Above 
this glorified, lux- 
iferous snail are 
reared erect the 
wings of a swallow, 
or of several swal- 
lows. Surely a 
strange combina- 
tion ! 

Regarded from 
a distance the next 
" spirit - drawing" 
evokes in my mind 
memories of a par- 
ticularly scathing 
caricature of a 
once popular man 
of letters. On a 
closer scrutiny the 
suggestion dis- 
appears and is re- 
placed by a feeling 
of amazement that 
so large a head 
should be sup- 
ported by so tiny 
and bulbous a 
body. It may be 
that the spirit re- 
sponsible for this 
work best knew its 
intentions ; may, 
for example, it not 
be a jinn arising 
from a vase ? Of 
one thing we may 
make sure — that 
should such an 
apparition really 
appear before the 
vision of any of 
us, either in dream 
or waking hours, 
it would leave a 
decidedly unplea- 
sant impression. 

Surely nothing 
that ever sprang 
from the wit and 
pencil of any of 
the grotesque ex- 
positors of scenes 
in the Netherworld 

A combination of a snail with the wings of a frwalUw. 

A " spirit ■ drawing " lhat 

a famous caricature 


evokes memories <i 

Original from 

was more uncanny 
than that on the 
next page. A well- 
known painter who 
has examined the 
drawing makes this 
comment : M The 
position and forma- 
tion of the arm- 
Ifgs is so beauti- 
fully organic that I 
should be inclined 
to doubt if even 
an artist could in- 
vent such a beast 
— without having 
seen it*" This 
dictum hints at a 
scope — a possi- 
bility of visual 
experience in an 
artist which others 
of lis cannot envy. 
Of the final 
specimen one may 
confidently say of 
it that something 
archaic and 
Egyptian — a sug- 
gestion of the 
Sphinx, and not a 
little also of the 
Phoenix — appears 
in it. About it all 
there is a shadowy 
impressionism, a 
vagueness about 
body and feathery 
appendages, only 
the eyes- and such 
eyes! — being dis- 
tinct and firmly 
rendered. One 
cannot say that 
there was anything 
in the artist's mind 
as he limned it, 
because during the 
process the artist 
had no mind. His 
intellectual powers 
were In a state of 
suspense, and his 
hands traced things 
under an impulse 
alien to himself, 
involving no strain 
whatever upon his 


2 lh 

Something archaic and Egyptian — a suggestion of ihe Sphinx and not a little also of the Phoenix 

— appears in the above picture. 

by Google 

Original from 



These drawings, though the most extra^ 
ordinary, are by no means alone of their kind. 
In America the most celebrated producer 
of so-called spirit- drawings was one J, M. 
Spear, many of whose productions have been 
religiously preserved in spiritualistic circles; 
but to my mind, although fantastic and 
allegorical to a degree, they are by no means 
so good as those given in this article. Spear 
was fond of weird anatomic illustrations, and 
dissections of the human body interested him. 
There is a London medium who also has a 
penchant in this 
direction. One 
would like, to see an 
entire collection of 
all the spirit draw- 
ings extant, in order 
that one might judge 
of their merits as a 
school, In St. Mar- 
tin's Lane, at the 
headquarters of the 
l^ondon Spiritualist 
Alliance, are several 
fine examples of 
floral designs which 
might formanucleus. 

A remarkable case 
of automatic draw- 
ing was recently in- 
vestigated by Pro- 
fessor James, the 
distinguished Ameri- 
can savant. 

The subject, C, H* 
P., a married man, 
fifty years of age, 
was debarred from 
following his occupa- 
tion of book keeper 
owing to an injury 
to hi> spine. lor 
some years previous 
to the accident P.'s 
hand had been 

subject to twitchings and other involuntary 
movements, but these he had attributed to 
nervousness, being unaware of his latent 
artistic powers. On the advice of a hypnotist, 
however, he decided to encourage these pre- 
monitory symptoms, and with pencil and 
paper before him he sat down to await results, 
Tracings were directly made, the movements 
being violent and erratic ; but it was some days 
before an object that could be recognised was 
produced, tlradually, however, out of the 
meaningless ma^e of lines appeared heads, 
crude and barbaric ; vases covered with 

lized by m 

Of this picture a distinguished painter has said : iL The 

position and formation of the arm -legs is so beautifully 

organic that I should be inclined to doubt if even an artist 

could invent such a beast- without having seen ii." 

)vered wit 

curious and fantastic faces, dark-skinned war- 
riors, and animals of unknown types. In 
the course of a few months the pictures 
assumed quite an artistic appearance. 

li 1 have tried bard," says C. H, P., "to 
account for the power or directing mind that 
produces these pictures, but so far with no 
satisfactory result. I must say, however, 
that the evidence to me is strong that, in 
order that the unknown power should have 
sway, the natural or earthly mind must be 
for the time being su aside, either entirely 

or (what appears to 

me more reasonable) 
the unknown power 
is for the time being 
the dominant one, 
but acts in conjunc- 
tion with the earthly 
mind> !J 

What, then, is the 
or tginati ng po w er ? 
Where resides the 
mysterious influ- 
ence, and whence 
does it come and 
why? To such ques- 
tions as these many 
reply that it is the 
subconscious self, 
inherent in all of us, 
the subliminal spirit 
which Socrates 
knew, and which he 
called his Daemon, 
And what is this 
subconscious self 
but the net result of 
all our unheeded 
observations and 
a ppre h en si ons, 
which, below the 
surface of our work- 
aday ego, have been 
slowly building 
themselves up into 
a separate faculty? This faculty— let us say 
that of an artist — if it did not manifest itself in 
ourselves, would, after us> show itself in our 
children or our children's children- 
There is no dnubt that many persons, when 
placed under hypnotic influence, if the sug- 
gestion were made to them and the necessary 
drawing material furnished, would be found to 
produce automatic drawing. " Many are 
poets/' wrote Ryron, " who have never penned 
their inspirations." Many, also, are conceiv- 
ably artists who have never handled either 
brush or pencil ;>, it whase faculty is latent." 



H E two young men stood on 
the Embankment pavement. 
On their left the dark, turgid 
river, framed on the far side 
with a curving row of lamps ; 
in the background a brilliant 

medley of sky signs; on their right T the two 

huge hotels, alight from basement to attic, 

pouring out warmth and brilliancy upon the 

chill November air 

The younger and thin- 
ner of the two — also, 

by the way, the shat> 

bier — pulled his com- 
panion by the arm. 

" Richard," he ex- 
claimed, " look ! Our 

first walk in London 

is, after all, allegorical. 

We stand between the 

dark waters of despair 

and all the fire and 

splendour of life. We 

stand here with wet 

feetj cold, half starved, 

amongst the outcasts. 

Enough of it, Richard ! 

There is no middle 

way. For me, at any 

rate, it shall be the 

pinnacles — or that !" 
He pointed with a 

fierce downward ges 

ture to the river. His 

companion - — a youth 

of stouter build and 

more phlegmatic ap 

pearance — shook his 

bead slowly. 

" 1 am not sure that 

I agree with you, 

David/' he said, slowly. 

"You want so much 

—you always have. I 

am ambitious, too, but 

1 should be satisfied 

with something less 

than the topmost 

places, and nothing in 

the world would ever induce me to take 
my own life— nothing whatever ! " 

His companion laughed and dragged him 

"Come," he said; "this is one of the 
backwaters of life. The whole place de- 
presses me. Let us see what is on the other 
side of those palaces. Come quickly, 
Richard. You are always so slow." 

Come/ hi: sAir>; 'this is one of the backwat&hs ok like, the whoi i- 






They climbed the Savoy hill— tragical 
figures had they but known it— country lads 
called like moths to the candle by the far-off 
tumult of life. Three hundred miles north, 
the mother of David, wife of the Reverend 
David Barstow, Methodist and boot-maker, 
prayed by candle-light in her tiny bedroom 
for her truant son. And within a few hundred 
yards, Mr. Richard Skelmore, grocer and 
coal-dealer, brooded in silence over his pipe, 
glancing sometimes into the fire, sometimes 
into the worn face of the woman who sat at 
the opposite corner of the hearth, pretending 
to darn his socks, weeping silently behind 
the shelter of her spectacles. 

" Them boys'll come to no harm, mother," 
he said once. " They're young and strong. 
They can stand a lot of knocking about. 
Besides, from what one hears London's no 
such a bad place. There's money to be made 
there, and Richard's a shrewd lad. They'll 
come to no harm, mother." 

His wife's reply was choked by a sob. 

" Please God ! " she murmured. " Please 
God ! " . . . 

Up the Savoy hill to the Strand, a few 
steps to the left, and they became entangled 
with the stream of carriages and motors 
turning slowly into the courtyard of the 
great hotel. Richard, diffident though stolid, 
would have hung back, but David laughed 
at his hesitation. Together they joined the 
supper-going throng. Speechless, they mar- 
velled at the glossy silk hats, the white 
gloves, the strange uniformity of the men. 
But more wonderful still were the women 
— beautiful, fairy-like creatures, their lace 
skirts upraised as though to show their silk- 
clad ankles and satin slippers ; women with 
golden hair and black, marvellously coiffured, 
flashing with ribbons or jewels, shaking per 
fume from their clothes which robbed the 
November night even of its dourness. Their 
voices, their laughter, their gestures were all 
strange. It was Venusberg to the peasant ; 
the magic of it leaped through their veins. 
They pressed closer to the great glass front. 
They saw the splendour of the spreading 
vestibule, the blaze of lights, the banks of 
flowers, the women without their cloaks — 
bare-necked save for their jewels, the men in 
their immaculate dress-coats and white waist- 
coats, the servants with powdered hair and 
gorgeous livery. They even caught a whisper 
of the distant music — music which seemed to 
strike a keynote to this sudden glimpse of 
Paradise — thrilling, voluptuous, inspiring. 
David drew a long breath, a breath that 
came through his teeth like a sob. 

Digitized by LjOOgle 

"My father would call this Hell!" he 

" Mine would never believe in such things,'' 
Richard muttered. " Man, it is wonderful ! " 

Their presence became noticed, and a 
person in uniform — tall and splendid— swept 
them away. Loiterers were not allowed. 
Back into the Strand, into the streets, to the 
river — where they chose. David laughed 

" Shall you ever forget that, Richard ? " he 

"I shall never forget it! " Richard answered. 

"They turn us away because we are poor!" 
David cried. " They are right ! There is 
no place m this world for the poor ! Some 
day we will come back, you and I, Richard ! 
Some wav or other we will forge the golden 
key ! " 

But Richard said nothing. His face was 
set and hard, and his eyes seemed to have 
grown closer together. But he, too, had 
sworn an oath ! 

Ten years of solid, strenuous labour, of 
dogged persistence, of a mechanical industry 
which one by one overcame the barriers 
which guard promotion, slowly but surely 
Richard moved upwards. His clothes — 
characteristic clothes they were, too— marked 
his progress. He wore a silk hat now — a 
silk hat carefully chosen, bargained for, 
ironed every night himself by some secret 
process, glossier always than any other in the 
office, although none cost less. His trousers 
were freshly creased every morning in a 
home-made press. The age of his black 
coat — second-hand to start with— was in- 
credible when one considered its smoothness 
and fit. His linen was a fraud, though its 
defects were hidden. His gloves — carried, 
and never actually worn— seemed likely to 
remain new to all eternity. The great Mr. 
Driver, of Holmes and Driver, Holborn 
Viaduct, found nothing to complain of in 
the appearance of this young man whom he 
had just met by appointment in Spiers and 
Pond's bar at Cannon Street Station. He 
shook hands condescendingly. Richard had 
raised his hat. 

" Until we have settled this little matter of 
business, Mr. Skelmore," the great merchant 
said, " it is just as well, perhaps, for your 
sake, that we are not seen too much together. 
My motor is outside, and, if convenient, I 
propose that we take our luncheon in the 

"Just as you wish, Mr. Driver," Richard 
answered. " I am quite at your service/' 




So then, for the first time, Richard passed 
the threshold of the Milan Restaurant A 
commonplace, insignificant young man, look- 
ing exactly what he was — a City clerk, a son 
of the people — he took his place for the first 
time with those gayer and brighter children 
from the world he knew nothing of. He 
showed no signs of what he was feeling. His 
attitude of respectful attention to every word 
which fell from his companion's lips never 
wavered. And yet his heart was thumping 
against his ribs. It was premature — this. 
He had not meant to breathe this atmo- 
sphere as an outsider. He did his best to 
render himself unconscious of it — to forget 
the pleasant sense of warmth, the flutter of 
women's dresses, their soft laughter, the 
delicate cooking, the yellow wine. So far 
as he could, he steeled himself against 
his environment. Every day he lunched for 
sevenpence in a grimy hole underground, 
where the smells of countless dinners hung 
about the walls, where the few waiters were 
listless and dirty, where the appointments 
were coarse, the linen none too clean, and 
the gas burnt day and night. It was an 
interlude, this — no more. His day had not 
yet come. 

" I see no reason, Mr. Skelmore," his host 
said, while they were waiting for a moment 
between the courses, " why we should delay 
entering upon the subject which has brought 
us together. I understand that you are 
thinking of leaving the service of Messrs. 
Medbury, Smith, and Co. ? " 

" I am prepared to do so," Richard 
answered, cautiously, " if I can find a suit- 
able position." 

" And what," Mr. Driver asked, " should 
you consider a suitable position ? " 

Richard was silent for a moment. 

"A suitable position," he said, slowly, 
" would be one where I should be paid, in 
actual salary or prospects, what I am worth." 

Mr. Driver smiled. He had been told 
that this was a confident young man. 

"Who is to decide/' he asked, "that 
important question?" 

" I shall be content to leave it to you, sir," 
Richard answered. " I will tell you only 
what I can do." 

Mr. Driver nodded. 

"That sounds reasonable," he said. 
"Please go on." 

"Your turnover last year," Richard said, 
" was three hundred and forty-seven thousand 

" How the deuce do you know that?" Mr. 
Driver exclaimed. 

Digitized by LiOOglC 

" Never mind," Richard answered. " The 
point is this. Next year I could raise your 
turnover to five hundred thousand pounds ; 
the year after to seven hundred thousand 

Mr. Driver raised his eyebrows. 

"That's tall talking," he remarked. 

"I speak within my figures," the young 
man said, calmly, producing a piece of paper 
from his pocket and laying it upon the table. 
" You will see transactions here, sir, to the 
value of two hundred thousand pounds. 
They have all been arranged by me The 
blanks represent the source of supply and the 
customers' names. The day I joined your 
firm I could fill them in." 

Mr. Driver glanced through the papers 
which his companion had gently pushed 
across towards him. He checked off item 
after item, and his opinion of this young man 
with the wooden lace and close -set eyes 
underwent a sudden change. It was genius. 
There was no other word for it. 

44 1 might add, also," Richard said, " that, 
the credit of your firm being better than the 
credit of Messrs. Medbury, Smith, and Co., 
I could doubtless obtain more liberal terms 
for you than those figures show. I refer 
more particularly to the export department, 
of which I have had sole control, and where 
cash payments are much appreciated." 

44 Supposing we come to terms and take 
over this business," Mr. Driver asked, after a 
short pause, 44 what would become of Med- 
bury, Smith, and Co. ?" 

44 Their business would be ruined," Richard 
answered, calmly. "They would be in the 
Gazette in two years' time " 

Mr. Driver looked curiously across the 
table at his guest. He was a hard, unscru- 
pulous man himself, but such callousness 
moved even him. 

44 1 wonder you haven't approached them," 
he remarked. "They might give you a 

44 1 should not accept it," Richard answered, 
deliberately. "They are on the downward 
grade. I prefer to be associated with capital 
and enterprise. I want — to get on." 

44 1 shouldn't wonder if you didn't," Mr. 
Driver remarked. " What salary are you 
getting now ? " 

44 Four hundred a year," Richard answered. 

44 Married ? " 

44 No." 

44 What do you want from us ? " Mr. Driver 

44 Five hundred a year, one per cent, on 
the increase iP|faDTWlTf urnover > an( ^ a J un * or 





partnership in three years," Richard said, 

"Prove jour figures and it's a bargain," 
his companion declared. 

Richard smiled for the first time* 

"I am alone at the office after five this 
evening,' 3 he said. " You shall see the books. 
You can take any one of the items on that 
list and verify it." 

They went out together half an hour later. 
A young man— pale, with dark eyes, clean- 
shaven, and with slightly worn features, rose 
suddenly from his chair and caught Richard 
by the arm. 

"By Heaven, it's Richard!" he exclaimed. 

" David ! " the other exclaimed. 

They shook hands. There was a moment's 
embarrassed silence. They had seen nothing 
of one another lately, Richard had been too 
engrossed for friendships. 

"Curious that we should meet here, 
David," he remarked. 

David laughed gaily, and pointed out of 
the window, 

"That is where we stood," lie remarked. 
" Have you been down lie low yet ? Have 
you penetrated into the holy of holies ?" . 

Digitized by GOOQ I C 

" Not vet," Richard answered. 

"Nor V Havid declared. "I'm afraid 
poetry will never take me there. You are 
doing all right ? '* 

"Pretty well, thank you," Richard answered. 

"Well meet there some day yet," David 
declared, laughing, " Look me up when 
you've time. I change my abode pretty 
often, but I'm always to be heard of at the 
\\ r ander ers 1 Club/' 

So they met and passed on, these two who 
had once been swayed by a common and 
passionate impulse. David was thoughtful 
for a moment. Then he turned to his com- 
panion — a middle-aged man, with classic 
features and flowing grey hair. 

"Studley," he said, "that young man and 
1 came from the same village in Westmor- 
land. We literally ran away from home to 
make our fortunes. I remember the night 
after our arrival. We were walking along 
the Embankment — the river on one side, 
these palaces of light on the other. It was 
all fairyland to us. We were excited, 
emotional. We came over here, pressed 
our noses against the great windows, and 
watched the People g<pinto the restaurant." 




His companion laughed. 

" I'd like to have seen you," he said. 

" We were queer youngsters," David con- 
tinued. " Remember that we came straight 
from a tiny village, that we had never even 
been in a town larger than Kendal, or seen 
a woman in evening dress. It was a sort of 
Arabian Nights to us — a Paradise, if you like. 
I remember even now how thrilled we were. 
I think we joined hands on our way home- 
ward, and swore a common oath to attack 
the great citadel of Life from that moment. 
We went for our fortunes hammer and tongs, 
and I think that the height of our ambition 
at that time was to wear a swallow- tail coat, 
a white waistcoat, a white tie, and attend a 
lady with fair hair, a low-necked dress, black 
silk stockings, and high-heeled shoes down 
the corridor there and into the restaurant." 

Studley laughed quietly. 

"Your friend," he remarked, "seems to 
be still climbing. You, my dear David, 
might realize your ambition when you chose. 
If only you'll promise to write that story 
for me in the- way I have pointed out, I'll 
advance you five hundred pounds on account." 

David smiled. His eyes were suddenly 
fixed— reminiscent. He saw a country lane 
whose hedges were wreathed with honey- 
suckle and wild roses, a low privet hedge, 
more roses, pinks, and clematis, a cottage, 
and a girl. He smelt the new-mown hay. 
He heard the drowsy evening sounds. He 
heard the whisper of his own name as the 
girl came down the trim garden path. His 
lips parted — his smile became a laugh. 

"Are you going to accept my offer?" 
Studley asked. 

"Not I!" David answered. "I was just 
trying to think how Anna would look in a 
low-necked gown ! " 

There is a little space above the foyer at 
the Milan where the men-folk wait while their 
womenkind leave their theatre coats, smooth 
their hair, arrange their jewels, and bestow a 
final glance upon themselves in the long gilt 
mirrors before sallying forth to conquer. 
There David and Richard met once more, 
stared at one another doubtfully for a 
moment, and then exchanged embarrassed 
greetings. Richard had grown portly, his 
hair was a little grey, his cheeks were still 
pale, his eyes deeper set than ever. He was 
dressed in the very height of fashion- 
dressed, too, by a good tailor. His links 
and studs were all that they should be. His 
white waistcoat was cut according to the 
fashion of f the moment. His tie and collar 

Vol. xxxviu— 36. 

were both correct. David, alas ! fell very far 
short of such perfection. His dress-coat was 
a little shabby ; his shirt had only one stud- 
hole and a distinct bulge ; his tie, carefully 
arranged though it was, had evidently been 
through the cleaner's hands. His face, still 
thin, still a little worn, was brown with 
health ; his mass of dark hair, sprinkled with 
grey, picturesque ; his mouth and expression 
as delightful as ever. 

"Queer thing that we should meet here, 
Richard !" he exclaimed, with a little laugh. 

" It is certainly a coincidence," Richard 

David patted him on the back. 

" I hear that you are a merchant prince," 
he said. " You look the part — you do, 
indeed, old man ! " 

Richard accepted the compliment un- 

"I have been fortunate," he admitted. 
"You remember we set our hands to the 
plough the same night." 

" Remember ! Of course I do," David 
answered, gaily. "Well, we've neither of 
us done so badly, eh ? I'm a pauper still, 
but here and there a fool buys a copy of my 
poems, or an editor lets me spoil his pages. 
So I live ! What can a man do more ? " 

Richard looked for a moment as though 
he scarcely understood. 

" I am glad," he said, slowly, " that you 
are content." 

David laughed. 

" I am afraid my small measure of pros- 
perity," he said, " would never satisfy you. 
Mine is a tiny income ; but down in the 
country one doesn't need much. Studley is 
giving us some dinner here to-night — the 
editor I impose myself upon most frequently." 

Richard — by the by, he was Sir Richard 
now— toyed with his gold chain for a moment. 

" Your views of life," he said, with some 
show of curiosity, "have altered since we 
stood in the gutter and recorded our vow." 

"Again and again," David laughed. " Thank 
God for it ! What was a real picture tc me 
that night has become allegorical. The gods 
have touched my eyes." 

Sir Richard said nothing. He did not 
understand. But it was envy, no doubt, 
which made his less fortunate friend of 
former days change his point of view. 

" You are married ? *"' he asked. 

"To the dearest little girl in the world," 
David declared. "You'll see her directly. 
By the by, I remember reading of your wed- 
ding. Half a column in the Morning Post, 

' yoUfltitHjlSHIbQ It MICHIGAN 



"I married the wido\y of my late partner," 
Sir Richard declared. " I am sorry that we 
are giving a dinner-party to-night, or I 
should have been glad for you to have 
joined us. We are entertaining the Lord 
Mayor unofficially — my wife's cousin. You 

figures in the ever- moving crowd, Lady 
Sk el more was short and stout. Her face, for 
all its coating of powder, was red ; her hair, 
for all its blaze of diamonds, was stiff and 
ungainly ; her gown of white satin was cut 
by a celebrated drL-ssmakL-r, but her lady- 


will see our table as you go in— on the left, 
covered with pink roses/' 

'* I'll look out for it," David declared, good- 
huroouredly. M Ah, here's Anna ! " 

The women, curiously enough, came out 
together— as strange a contrast as any two 

ship's instructions had been followed blindly, 
and her figure was scarcely adapted to the 
Directoire style. Her neck bkzed with 
jewels. She was very confident, very self satis- 
fied- And b^ her side came a tall girl, with 
large brown WiSItfMi Wtfftisitive, humorous 




mouth. She wore a simple black gown, 
which certainly was cut after the fashion of a 
few seasons ago. Her uncoiffured hair was 
arranged with the utmost simplicity. She 
wore no ornaments nor any jewellery. Sir 
Richard did not flinch. The introductions 
followed and were duly acknowledged. Lady 
Skelmore, however, looked in something like 
amazement at this young woman whose 
acquaintance she had made. What was 
Richard about, she wondered ! A girl here 
at the Milan in a home-made gown — such a 
cut — and not even a brooch ! Lady Skel- 
more did not linger. She did not think it 
necessary to make any apology for her haste. 

" My dear Richard ! " she exclaimed, as 
they sailed through the foyer. " Whatever 
induced you to introduce me to such 
people ? " 

"I ran away to London as a boy with 
Barstow," he answered, apologetically, "f 
am afraid he has made rather, a failure of 
things. But I came face to face with him 
there, and it was a little awkward." 

His wife shrugged her profuse shoulders. 

" One isn't likely to see them again," she 

Anna was almost disturbed. The pleasure 
of her evening was threatened. 

"David," she pleaded, "is there anything 
wrong with me ? Am I so very dowdy ? " 

David threw back his head and laughed — 
laughed like an angel. 

" Here's old Studley ! " he exclaimed. 
" Let's ask him ! " 

Southwards over the white roads, through 
the scented twilight, the great car with its 
twin blazing eyes leaped and tore, always on 
fourth speed, always reckless alike of the 
police who challenged and the scattering 
crowds. On the front seat the chauffeur, 
leaning a little forward, and with face like a 
mask, sat alone. Inside there was but one 
passenger — Sir Richard Skelmore, knight 
and member of Parliament. Richard was a 
little older now — a little shaken. The starch 
seemed to have gone from his frame, his 
cheeks were flabby, an unpleasant light was 
in his eyes. Sometimes he lifted the flap 
and looked behind. Sometimes he pored 
over the papers with which the little table in 
front of him was strewn. Sir Richard was 
ill at ease. He raised the india rubber tube 
to his lips and spoke to the chauffeur. 

" How far are we from Southampton, 
Murray ? " he asked. 

His tone was apologetic, for it was a 
question which he had asked often before. 

The man's answer, however, betrayed no 
sign of impatience. 

"Thirty-seven miles, sir. Good road all 
the way." 

Sir Richard laid down the speaking-tube 
and drew a little breath between his clenched 
teeth. After all, there might be a chance ! 
Then there was a sharp corner, a grinding of 
brakes, a shout, a crash, chaos ! The car 
had run into half-a-dozen stray cows. Sir 
Richard crawled out. The chauffeur, covered 
with dust, limped his way to the engine. 

" We're done, sir," he announced, half 
sobbing. "I did my best, but we had to 
take risks." 

"Can't you tinker her up?" Sir Richard 
asked, hoarsely. 

The man almost laughed. 

"Not in a week, sir," he answered. "If 
it could be done, I should do it, you may be 
sure. A hundred pounds was a fortune to 
me. I did my best." 

Sir Richard filled his hands with gold. 
Money was of little use to him now. Then 
he started off down the lane. He had some 
vague idea of walking, he scarcely knew 
where. Perhaps he would come to a town 
soon where he could hire a car. 

He walked swiftly, but he was unused to 
exercise. There were no lights in front — no 
sign even of a village. How far could he 
walk, he wondered. Already his feet were 
weary. Perhaps there would be an inn soon. 
Then he came to a sharp corner in the road, 
and immediately afterwards a small house 
lying a little way back — a long greystone 
building, almost covered with clematis and 
creeping shrubs. He paused in front of it 
for a minute and looked in. The air was 
almost faint with the perfume of roses. 
There were sweet peas and clematis, tall 
hollyhocks and fragrant borders of migno- 
nette. Sir Richard hesitated for a moment 
Then he lifted the latch and walked quietly 
up the path. There were no blinds. The 
curtains of the little drawing-room were 
undrawn. He could see a man lying in a 
basket chair. A lady at the piano was just 
finishing a song, the last words of which 
floated out to him as he walked softly up the 
grass border. She came toward the man, 
who rose from his chair holding out his 
hands. He passed his arm around her 
waist and suddenly pushed open the French 

"Come out and listen, Anna," he said. 
"Perhaps our nightingale is singing." 

They came face to face with Richard, 

sta, *Eim'3™dk% middle of their 



narrow path — Sir Richard, bareheaded (for 
he had lost his hat in the accident) and with 
the rising moonlight full in his face. The 
two men gazed at one another in amazement, 
and David removed his pipe from his teeth. 

" By Jove, it's Richard ! " he exclaimed, 
"Sir Richard, I beg your pardon," he 

"I can't stop," he said. "I must get on 
board my yacht to-nigh t To-morrow will 
be too late.'' 

"Tonight!" David repeated, in amaze- 
ment "But, my dear fellow, be reasonable. 
It isn't possible. Make the best of things 
and have a shake down with us." 

hv jctvB h its michakd!! me kkcuaimku. 

continued, with a whimsical laugh* M Do you 
really mean that you have come to see us ? 
You must have dropped out of a flying 
machine/' he added, looking outside for 
some trace of a vehicle. 

Sir Richard cleared his throat 

"I was motoring to Southampton," he 
said. " We had an accident a quarter of a 
mile back. I was walking to where I could 
find a vehicle to take me where I could hire 
another motor." 

David laughed reassuringly, 

"My dear fellow," he said, "you can't get 
any farther to nigh L There's no town within 
miles of us, and no one round here has a 
motorcar. We can put you up, and glad to. 
Come along in and let me give you a drink 
to start with," 

Sir Richard shook his head. The black 
fear was upon hirn. He showed it in his 
whit ti face and twitching lips. 

"Do, please, stay, Sir Richard," the lady 
begged, and, even in his terrible plight, 
Sir Richard knew that the voice was sweet. 
" We will do our best to make you comfort- 
able. I will see about some dinner at 

She turned towards the house. Sir Richard 
let her ^o- 

" Is anything wrong, Richard ? " David 

" Everything is wrong/ 1 the other answered. 
"Don't you read the papers?" 

" Never, if I can help it," David declared, 

"I am ruined, and worse than ruined ! " 
Sir Richard said, unsteadily. " Worse than 
ruined ! Do you hear that ? Can you under- 
stand now why I must be on my yacht 
to-night ? It is that or a convict prison ! " 

David drojipt^l tin 1 pipe which he was 

hLtfM^WW^ seL " :e ' 1 " 



"Richard," he said, gravely, "is it as bad 
as that, really ? " 

" It is that — no more nor less," Sir Richard 
declared. " Have you a telephone to your 

tL There is no telephone within ten miles/' 
David answered, " Perhaps you could rest 
quietly here, and they would not find you." 

Sir Richard looked about him like a 
hunted man. A cart drove by, and he drew 
back into the shadow. The two men were close 
up against the window of the little drawing- 
room. Suddenly he gripped David by the 
shoulder and pointed in. 

" You are a weak creature, David," he 
muttered- " Don't you remember that night 
when you dragged me up from the Embank- 
ment? Don't you remember swearing that 
for you it should be the pinnacles or the 
river? Why, man," he continued, "your 
words ate into my brain. They rang in my 
ears year after year. They were the motto of 
my life. Didn't I set myself to conquer fate 
—to become one of those whom we saw? 
Thousand by thousand I built up my fortune, 
I cared not a whit for the stepping-stones, I 
made myself into a machine for money-mak- 
ing. The rungs of the ladder for me were as 
though they had never existed. Every action 
of my life was shaped toward that one end. 
1 reached the pinnacles, David- I have been 
there. And you — you whose words spurred 
me on — you have been content with the 
lesser things. Curse you, David ! I wish 
that 1 had never seen your face, or heard you 
speak ! " 

He had turned toward the road, listening 
once more, but David rested his hand lightly 
upon his shoulder. 

" Richard," he said, "1 was a young fool 
in those days; but you, too, you were not 
over wise. You did not understand. When 
we looked in through the windows that night, 
what I saw — what we both saw — seemed to 
me to represent everything that was best in 

life. There were beauty and luxury, freedom 
from care, happiness. It was for that I 
strove, and, as the years go, the material goal 
changes, but the desire remains. I, Richard, 
I never sought anything less than the 
pinnacles, and I have found them — in there." 

Sir Richard gazed, and his narrow eyes 
grew narrower. It was a long, low drawing- 
room, with a grand piano in one corner, 
water-colours hanging upon the white walls, 
bowls of flowers everywhere, red -shaded 
lamps, comfortable chairs. And coming 
toward them the beautiful woman, whose 
smile still brought the light into the younger 
man's eyes. Sir Richard turned away. He 
had no words. He walked a little into the 
shadow, and David did not follow him. 

Then an unfamiliar sound broke the 
summer silence, A great car with Sashing 
lights pulled up at the door. Two men 
sprang down. The voice of one of them 
rang out distinctly upon the silence. 

M He must be here ! " one said. " Watch 
the lane, Gregory I M 

Sir Richard held out his hand to his friend. 

" Stay where you are," he said, "It shall 
not be here, I promise you that. It 
shall not be here ! " 

He moved farther back into the shadow 
— they heard him go crashing through the 
hedge, The two men stopped to listen. 
Then there was a sharp report, a groan, and 
silence ! They all moved toward the spot. 
Anna came running out or the house. 

"What is it, David?" she cried "What 
has happened ? " 

He led her back. 

" Nothing that you or I can help, dear," 
he said, " Nothing that concerns us." 

"But Sir Richard? What has happened 
to him ? M she asked, fearfully. 

David shook his head, 

" Dear," he answered, " he set up the false 
gods. Come into the house. There is 
nothing that we can do." 

by Google 

Original from 




My Reminiscences. 




[In the following interesting reminiscences, imparted to a representative of " The Strand Magazine/' Sir 
Lawrence Alma-Tadema, one of the most distinguished painters of the age, tells of his early struggles and 
triumphs, with something more than a hint of the secret of his success. Some day, it is to be hoped, 
Sir Lawrence will write his autobiography in full. Although born at Dronryp, in Friesland. in \%%, the great 
painter's work shows him to be still at the height of his powers,] 

WAS barely four years old when Friesland) 
my father, who came of an old would not 
Frisian family, departed from this study art 
world My 
mother, to 
was very 

whom I 
deeply attached, was a 
woman of strong cha- 
racter, and, when she 
was left with a family 
of small children, only 
the two youngest of 
whom were her own, 
and a very limited in- 
come on which to 
support and educate 
them, bore herself 
with energy and 
courage- Thanks to 
her loving care and a 
taste for drawing and 
painting, my childhood 
days were not un- 

My guardians, fear- 
ing, no doubt, the (in 


Frvm a Fhotu.hy Elliott A fry. 

unknown position of an artist, 
listen to my prayers that I might 
It was decided that I should be 
made a lawyer, and I 
did my utmost 10 
submit cheerfully to 
the career which was 
marked out for me, 
although every 
moment I could steal 
from work was devoted 
to drawing and sketc h- 
ing, and my tasks wtre 
often neglected in the 
pursuit of my passion 
for art. 

I was educated at 
the public schools at 
^eeuwarden, but the 
routineof my work there 
interfered but little 
with my art pursuits, 
and my classic studies 
were more plastic than 
literary* So eager was 
I not to lose any time 

r — 



• 1 ll Ml 

lit PBis 

':\-d II 

^i?-~ f mm 

>' ^ t" — ^ ."«? ^3* — 

' "TV* M ft jf^' J Vfe % ^ p ^^ fc 


LKBVWARDKN, 5 SIR LAWRENCE A^^JjAjtf^^|ipYBj>'| |U^| ffltj^^ \\ [PAflfoffTOpfc* 



away from school that 1 remember per- 
suading my mother to wake me at Gve o'clock 
every morning by an ingenious device 
of my own. It was ingenious, yet it had the 
virtue of extreme simplicity, being nothing 
more or less than fastening a string to my big 
toe + When I felt the string tug, I sprang out 
of bed in order to devote myself to my 
labour of love before starting to perform that 
which I considered my duty. Meanwhile^ as 

my pictures has long since been dulled in 

I was sixteen when I painted the portrait 
of myself which my daughter now owns, I 
still cherish one testimonial to its merits as a 
likeness by the memory of certain smj.ll boys 
of Leeu warden j who, when I sallied forth 
carrying my juvenile masterpiece to receive 
some criticisms on it by the only artist in 
Leeuwarden, ran after me, crying, tl LooL 


(From th* picture in the possession of Miss AlniiTciderfia ) 


I sketched, my dear mother sat at the window 
watching for the schoolmaster to come in 
sight, so that I might hurry away and arrive 
before him in the school 

I went on thus with my drawing until, 
when I was but fourteen, I completed and 
sent a portrait of my sister to an art exhibition 
in Leeu warden, fud^e of my delight when 

it was accepted and hung ! 
edge of my rapture over 

Alas, I fear the 
the hanging of 

he's carrying himself under his arm ! M But the 
struggle between the inborn passion and the 
desire to do what I regarded as my duty to 
my mother was more than my health could 
bear* My strength gave way completely, and 
the doctors who attended me gave their verdict 
that my days were numbered. Anxious that 
my few remaining months of life should 




From a PhxAo, by Gteu. &ewut.s r Ltd. 

my heart's desire. The fierce struggle was 
over, and under the new conditions I soon 
regained my health, l,ven now it was far 
from plain sailing, For the Dutch schools of 
art refused me as a pupil, and I was forced 
to go to Antwerp, where I duly became a 
student at the Royal Academy, then under 
the direction of Baron Wappers. There I 
laboured without ceasing to make up for the 
time I had lost; but none of my work of 
this time remains, for I destroyed everything 
that I felt did not attain the standard of 
excellence 1 had 
raised for myself 

After leaving 
the art school I 
entered the studio 
of Louis Delaye, 
professor of 
archaeology in the 
Royal Academy 
of Antwerp, and 
worked on his 
pictures, as I did 
later on many pic- 
tures of the great 
historical painter 
of Belgium, Baron 
Leys, who exer- 
cised a deep and 
lasting influence 
on my work. 

Leys was at 
times a severe 
critic of my work* 
Once while I was 
occupied on the 
picture of "The 
Education of 
the Children of 
Clovjs " — it was 

Vol. ixiviL — 37. 


the first time he visited my studio — he 
remarked, "That marble is cheese/' I 
remember his asking me to insert in his 
picture of Luther and the other Reformers 
a Gothic table* When I had done so he 
came and looked at it, saying, " That is 
not my idea or a Gothic table j it ought to 
be so constructed that everyone knocks his 
knees to pieces on it* I saw the point, and 
hence the table now in the picture. 

The artistic possibilities of marble first 
attracted me when, as a young man of t we- 
an d twenty, 1 was 
on a visit to Ghent 
A friend took me 
to his club — it 
was the Cercle de 
la Concorde, I 
believe, where the 
smoking- r 00 m wa s 
lined with white 
marble. I was 
very much im- 
pressed by the 
tone and the charm 
of that decoration, 
and derived great 
pleasure in re- 
membering that 
first impression. 
Even now, after 
more than half a 
century, I often 
find myself think- 
ing of that marble 
club smoking- 
room in the quaint 
city of Ghent, 

It was in 1859 
my mother and 

"JWWffllffmWtHIGAIf"'" B-" up 




their home in Leeuwarden to join me at 
Antwerp. But this happiness of having my 
mother near me was only to endure for a 
short time ; four years later she passed away. 

After her death I married, in September, 
1863, and in 1864 I received a visit from the 
English picture dealer, Gambart— il principe 
Gambarti, as they used to call him in Italy. 
He was the picture dealer par excellence of 
his day, and was naturally held in great 
respect by artists. I remember him on that 
first visit to me, standing before my easel, 
on which I had posed my "Coming Out 
of Church," and instantly exclaiming: — 

" Did you paint that picture for the 

I assured him of the fact He asked me 
if they had seen it, and what was the 
price. I told him that they had not seen 
it as yet. " Well, then," said Gambart, " Til 
take it ; and let me have a couple of dozen 
of that kind at progressive prices each half- 
dozen." It was really as if he had been buy- 
ing bales of cotton. Of course, I thought, 
and not without reason, that my fortune was 
as good as made. Moreover, // principe 
Gambarti agreed that I might deal with the 
antique period I loved instead of the Middle 
Ages, where I had latterly been seeking my 
subjects. And so it came about that some 
of the pictures by which I am, perhaps, best 
known as a painter were included in this first 
singular bargain. 

One of my early pictures, " How the 
Egyptians Amused Themselves Three 
Thousand Years Ago," Prince Napoleon 
expressed a wish to possess, when it was 
exhibited at the Paris Salon in 1864, and 
obtained the gold medal. My price, how- 
ever, was the reason why the wish was not 
realized, and it became ultimately the private 
property of Mr. Gambart, in whose house it 
came to grief in the explosion which wrecked 
his house, 62, Avenue Road, in 1866. 

Four years did it take me to carry out 
Gambart's first commission, and the day 
arrived when Gambart again paid me a visit. 
" I want you," he said, " to paint me another 
four dozen pictures on the same condition 
of rising value." I consented, and I did my 
best not to disappoint him. "The Vintage *' 
was painted as one of them, and when the 
dealer saw it, perceiving that it was a far 
more important canvas than any of its pre- 
decessors—a work, too, that had cost me far 
more time and labour — he at once insisted 
upon paying for it the figure which was to 
have been given for the last half-dozen. For 
Gumbart, despite his profession, was a most 

generous-minded man. He came to Brussels 
and gave a dinner in my honour. At this 
dinner I found before my plate a silver claret 
jug, with a dedication and my name, and in 
my table napkin a cheque for one hundred 
pounds in excess of the price decided upon. 

Many years passed before I even visited 
Rome, and Greece 1 have never seen. 
A friend of my mother's did, indeed, offer 
me, when still a student in the Royal 
Academy at Antwerp, a sum of money 
to enable me to have a course of travel. 
But after due consideration I declined the 
kind offer. It seemed to me then— and my 
opinion is still unchanged — that a young 
artist, still in the student stage, was more likely 
to be harmed than benefited by going to 
Venice, say, and studying Titian, to Rome 
and studying Michelangelo, to Spain and 
becoming absorbed in Velazquez. The 
policy of travelling studentships is, in my 
opinion, a mistaken one. Scarcely any of 
the greatest painters travelled in their youth. 

When I first visited Italy, in 1863, I had 
asserted my name as an artist with my 
"Education of the Children of Clovis," 
.exhibited during the Artistic Congress in 
Antwerp, 1861. I began to travel, and 
visited first Cologne to see the Exhibition of 
German Art. In 1862 I visited London's 
Exhibition, and in 1863 I went to Italy. My 
first visit to Italy was a revelation to me. It 
extended my archaeological learning to such a 
degree that my brain soon became hungry for 
it. I spent much of my time in Rome and 
other cities exploring ruined temples, ruined 
palaces, ruins of amphitheatres, and, in fact, 
every nook and corner reminiscent of a 
bygone age. 

I have often been asked how I obtained 
such an intimate knowledge of old Greek 
and Roman life. Costume has been mainly 
derived from sculpture and antique paintings, 
while for the general details of architecture, 
furnishing, etc., I am chiefly indebted to 
museums and collections, and, of course, 
to the remaining buildings. Baring-Gould's 
" Tragedy of the Caesars," for instance, is 
an excellent work, inspired by the portraits of 
the time. Of course, I know Pompeii by 
heart, and have devoted many hours to 
exploring it, especially during the years 1863 
and 1884. In those days the pavements 
were uncovered, and not, as now, covered up 
with mud, owing to the misguided methods 
of preservation adopted by the Italian 

In spite of all the pains I have taken to be 
accurate ^^l^^^^ology, I have 



often been reminded how easy it is to fall 
short of absolute perfection. There is always 
someone whose speciality enables him to 
know more than you do on some particular 
point, and besides, there are many details 
about which classical archaeology is un- 
fortunately silent. Once, for instancej I 
introduced a sunflower into one of my 
pictures, thinking, as it belonged to the 
Jerusalem artichoke family, 1 was quite safe 
in this. Alas, I learnt too late that the sun- 
flower and its forty species are quite a modern 
importation from South America. Nor was 
this the only botanical slip of which I have 
been accused. In one of my Roman canvases 
I am said to have introduced the Clematis 

Henry in the production of "Cymbeline," 
and lastly I assisted Beerbohm Tree in his 
production of "Julius Caesar." It has been 
suggested that I found in these matters 
pleasant relaxation after the work of the 
studio. Relaxation ! It was harder work than 
painting. In the slender intervals between 
rehearsals members of the company would 
call and bombard me with all sorts of 
questions, I had no end of difficulty in 
persuading them to be truly Roman in 
appearance. Portia would insist on adorning 
herself with jewels, and so on. Interviews 
with scene-painters and rehearsals took up, as 
may be imagined, a considerable time. At 
the dress- rehearsal of "Julius Caesar" at His 


(By permission of the Merlin PhoioRrnpHc Co., 133, New Bond Si reel, London, W.) 

Jackmanni — credit for whose discovery 
belongs to tiu; utirJumm whose name it 
bears. In my "Sappho" I was told by a 
critic that I had painted a seat which belongs 
to quite another period. This time I was 
right, for the same seat is to be found on 
many early Greek vases. 

The stage has on more than one occasion 
made use of my knowledge of Greek and 
Roman life, I was first asked by Irving to 
assist him with " Coriolanus." But " Corio- 
lanus n was never produced until twenty years 
later, and my work did not get beyond care- 
ful sketches for the scenery. Then I was 
consulted by Mr. Beerbohm Tree about the 
mounting of " Hypatia 5 JJ for which I made 
myself responsible. In 1897 I helped Sir 

Majesty's I was at the theatre from seven in 
the evening until three the next morning. 
It was my own fault, no doubt, but I 
couldn't help entering fully into the interest 
and excitement of the thing. But that 
is always the way. One concentrates all 
one's energy and attention on whatever one 
takes in hand. For the time being I found 
it practically impossible to do any other work, 
and I think I shall have to avoid anything of 
the same kind in future. But I considerably 
enjoyed the experience, and this was, I think, 
to a large extent due to the fact that our 
actors and actresses are particularly nice 
people to get on with. 

After taking up my residence in England, 




(Cupyright, 1894. by Phoiographistht Gcsellschnft. By permission uf 
the Berlin Phtrtaj£r:iphic Co., 133, ^ rW l * ond Sweet, London, W.) 

charming house in Park Road, 
Regent's Tark, 17, Titchfield 
Terrace, called Townshend 
House, When I first pitched 
my tent in St, John's Wood I 
could reckon among my 
neighbours a large number of 
the most talented men and 
women in Ix>ndon. At one 
time or another George Eliot, 
Tom Hood, Douglas Jerroid, 
Shirley Brooks, Mile. Titiens, 
and Hep worth Dixon were all 
residents of this delightful 
corner of the Metropolis, not 
to mention Landseer and a 
great many fellow-artists, 

In London a painter can 
obtain everything he wants in 
the way of models. Rome 
itself cannot produce more 
varying types of Italian models 
than are to be found here. 
There are those who say that 
my Greeks and Romans are 
loo English in their appear- 
ance; but the difference be- 
tween ancient and modern is 
not so great as we are apt to 
suppose. The old Romans 
were human flesh and blood like 
ourselves, moved by identical 
passions and emotions, and it 
is this truth that I have 
endeavoured always to express 
in my pictures. 

On the 2nd of October, 1874, 
my house suffered greatly by 
the explosion of a barge pass- 
ing along the adjacent canal 
in the small hours of the 
morning. The barge was laden 
with high explosive material, 
and the unhappy persons in 
charge lost their lives. All 
the houses in the immediate 
vicinity were more or less 
wrecked, and Townshend 
House, from its exposed posi- 
tion, suffered severely. My two 
little girls had a miraculous 
escape, being aroused by the 
window - sash being suddenly 
blown on to their bed in 
which they lay. At the same 
time a shower of hazel nuts, 
many bags of which had 
Db^nabftnried by the ill fated 

VER^W.MflSA# scemk,d °" 



the house. That was not the most curious 
circumstance in connection with this explo- 
sion. It was feared that some of the cages 
in the adjoining Zoological Gardens had been 
shattered, but the staff of the gardens (bund 
rhe animals very much frightened, and had 
only to relock the doors of the cages which 
were found open, Unfortunately many birds 
escaped, but others returned to their cages. 

I have not in my painting career so far 
saturated myself in the spirit of the ancients 
as to embrace all their superstitions, but I 
do confess to a small superstition regarding 
the number seventeen. I have always found 

papers declared that it was of solid gold, and 
drew a marvellous word- picture of the luxury 
with which 1 was surrounded, For many 
weeks after that I was pestered by begging- 
letters from tier many by people who probably 
thought that a chip or two off my staircase 
would not very much matter to me and would 
raise them to affluence. 

The light and colour in a studio have 
always exerted a great influence upon me 
in my work. My first studio had panels of 
black decoration. In Brussels I was sur- 
rounded by bright red, and in London — at 
Townshend House, Regent's Park — I worked 


(Copyright, 190^ by Photograph i»che (lesdl&chaft. By pt-rtrission of the fieri in Pti olographic Co., 

133, N>w Boml SUreeL, London, W.) 

this a most lucky number for me. My wife 
was seventeen when 1 first met her, and the 
number of the house to which I took her 
when we were married was seventeen. My 
present house did bear the same number ; 
am] the first spade was put to the work of 
building it on August 17th. This was in 
1885, I had then been in possession of the 
place for three years, during that time 
designing and making plans and sketches for 
the house. It was on November 1 7th, 1886, 
that we took up our residence there. 

In my house a staircase of burnished brass 
leads to the studio in 34, Grove End Road 
But burnished brass is not, I believe, amongst 
the precious metals, although some years ago 
an imaginative writer in one of the German 

under the influence of a light green tint 
I hiring the winter I spent in Rome in 
1875-76 1 tried the e fleet of a white studio. 
Now the prevailing hue is a silvery one, and 
that, I think, gives the purest reflections. 

I am often asked what bunks have helped 
me. Of course, I put first and foremost the 
Book of Nature, but Leonardo da Vinci's 
" How to become a Painter' 1 was in my 
youth of great help to me, and for the firm 
and strong advice expressed in its pages 
I have always been profoundly grateful 
Besides which I am indebted to this great 
master for the beautiful adage, "All who 
have eyes must nor. think they ran see. You 
must knowQlEigikldrifi^Othe eyes gained by 




I cannot work with the regularity of same 
artists — Leighton, for example, who was able 
to apportion every part of his day to its 
allotted task, so many hours to a model, so 
many hours to a sitter, so many more to a 
study, and so on, A picture may make no 
visible progress for days, I never know how 
much or how little lam going to do. 

The fact that my work is mostly of the 
same kind only increases, I think, the strain. 
I have attained — at least, people think I 
have attained — to excellence in a certain 
groove of art I must continue to work in 
that groove without merely repeating myself, 
finding always fresh features of interest, new 
points of achievement This makes the 
artistic effort, although, in a sense, I may be 
able to paint very blue skies and very light 
marbles better and more easily than anything 

I was once asked by Dr. George libers, 
the great Egyptologist, why, in depicting 
ancient life, I should have begun with the 
land of Isis. But where else should I have 
begun ? The first thing the child learns of 
ancient times is about the Court of Pharaoh, 
and if we go back to the source of art and 
science, how 
often have we 
not to go back 
to Egypt ? 

Among my pic- 
tures of ancient 
Egyptian life were 
"Egyptians Three 
Thousand Years 
Ago/' "The 
Mummy/'. "The 
Chess Players," 
u Joseph, Over- 
seer of Pharaoh's 
Granaries," and 
"The Death of 
the First -Horn." 
Intcrm i ngled 
with these were 
" T a r q u i n u s 
Superbus/ 1 4i En- 
trance t <> a 
Roman Theatre," 
and other pictures 
of the great city 
of the Caesars. 
My first contribu- 
tion to the 
Royal Academy 
was in 1869, 

When my picture, sw uwksnce's rasrrjtAir of 

11 T h e Py rr h i c (By i^rmUsbn of the 

Dance," was brought over from Brussels to 

In the thirty-nine years that have since 
passed I have missed but one exhibition at 
Burlington House, and that was two years 
ago, when my " Caracalla and Geta " was not 
ready in time, I have exhibited at other 
galleries, of course, but all my most important 
work has been first shown at the Royal 

In looking at or thinking over my past 
work, I often recall interesting incidents in 
connection with the painting of it. For 
instance, once, in the picture called '* Spring/* 
I had put in a great arched ceiling which 
many of my friends liked,, but which did not 
completely satisfy me. So out it came 
altogether ; but by and by the expostulations 
of my friends led tiie to think of reviving that 
ceiling, so I painted a picture especially to 
contain it. This was the origin of "Un- 
conscious Rivals, J> now belonging to the 
Baron Schroder gallery 3X Staines, near 

When 1 look round upon my own little 
collection of family portraits I am frequently 
reminded that old style portraits always 

please. The 
average portrait, 
consisting of a 
head and some 
clothes, perhaps 
one or two hands, 
and the rest of 
black or brown 
background, by 
no means repre- 
sents a person as 
he is seen in real 
life. When we 
meet a friend we 
see not only him, 
hut his surround- 
ings, and I con- 
sider, therefore, 
that you should 
paint not only 
men and women, 
but some part 
also of Ih^ir 
accessories or en- 
vironments. Most 
of my portraits 
have been exe- 
cuted on this, 
principle. But in 
such matters 
his FATHttk-iN-LAw^pp* ti-rsi .- people are very 
Owner of the Piciuf^) ■ ' ! conservative, and 





many, I fear, when they engage to pay a 
certain price for a portrait, want the painter 
to devote his attention wholly to their 

All great art must in some form or other 
bear relation to life — he in accord with the 
things we daily see and feel A friend of 
tnine T a Scotch lady, has said so beautiful a 
word on this subject that I have written it on 
the waits of my studio : "As the sun colours 
flowery so art colours life." 

It is curious to reflect that I might never 
have become a painter. At trie outset 
of my career my art had a dangerous rival 
Music enchained me from my earliest 
years, until I was obliged, as a young man, to 

recognise that the art of painting is a jealous 
mistress, and, finding oil painting difficult 
enough, I since 1859 stuck to the brush 

So strong was my early propensity that 
my piano teacher in Leeu warden told my 
mother gravely to make me throw T aw ? ay my 
brushes and devote myself wholly to music. 
A time came with the lapse of many years 
when I renewed my acquaintance with that 
musician, then grown old- After uttering 
some compliments upon my pictures he dryly 
acknowledged that he had altered his mind 
about my becoming a musician — decidedly I 
should have been a painter, So T you see, all 
is for the best. 

by Google 

Original from 

THE LOCKED DOOR : The Story of a Night's Adventures. 


HIS cannot be the right direc- 
tion. It is not possible," said 
Kdward Windermere. He 
leapt from his bicycle and 
peered up and the 1 down 
the rude lane in which he 
found himself. 

He could see little. The Tog had come 
on treacherously, under cover of the creeping 
night. It hung now, like a great cloud, 
everywhere, growing every moment denser, 

The young mm stood irresolute. To go 
hick the way he had come ; to return igno- 
miniously to Hillgate and confess that the 
short cut had been a delusion and a snare , 
to remain there the night and go on to 
Cunning tonin the morning — that seemed the 
wisest course to take. But he did not find 
it alluring, 

In the first place, he hud promised Cosmo 
Gregson that he would be with him at Cun- 
nington that evening ; in the second place, 

he had wound along so tortuous a path sinre 
leaving Hillgate, had taken so many dips ami 
turns, that the thought of going over the 
same ground again filled him with distaste. 

He remounted his machine and moved 
gingerly ahead. His progress was slow. The 
impassive greyness in front tried his nerve, 
the light of his bicycle-lamp scarcely broke it. 

Even the blurred outlines of the hedges 
altered. They became less distinct, and lie 
guessed that the lane widened. While he 
drew the inference a shock ran through him: 
he found himself pitched from his machine. 
The ground sloped and he rolled gently, but 
not far. An icy coldness touched him, and 
he knew that he lay in water. He had fallen 
into a ditch, 

He scrambled out, wet, muddy, and dis- 
hevelled, but unhurt After some groping 
he found his cap, and pulled it over his head 
His bicycle lay upon the path ; the lamp had 
gone out. In righting the machine he came 

L ' Ilk s*ckau<-i I 

I • i - 1 1 I :\ I 1. 1 r i • 


upon the cause of the catastrophe— the 
decayed limb of a tree stretching almost from 
hedge to hedge. Windermere propped the 
bicycle against it, felt in his pockets for 
matches, and lighted his lamp. 

He then lifted his bicycle over the dank, 
rotting branch and moved on, pushing it as 
he went. 

The lane continued to widen, and eventually 
branched off in two directions. It was only 
when br©fj^f n ^ffo standstill by a broken 

wo wtoVEftmiiF t fflrctiiSfti ,wo road5 that 



Windermere discovered the fact. A gaunt 
post stood inside the fence. 

" A sign-post — at last ! Now I shall have 
some idea where I am !" exclaimed he. 

It, was with some difficulty that he made 
out the directions upon it. When he did so 
he laughed aloud, a laughter full of scorn, 
but without much mirth in it. 

The road to Hillgate, it appeared, lay 
toward the left through one of the unbroken 
hedges of the lane ; the road to Cunnington 
lay through -the tangled enclosure where the 
sign-post was ; the road to Marshal's Graham 
lay somewhere near the sky. 

Windermere leant forward, and with his 
elbow gave the sign-post a derisive push. It 
tottered and fell. It had fallen long since, 
no doubt, arid some waggish passer-by had 
raised it and had propped it against a rotting 

That hope was gone. Windermere, without 
much prejudice in its favour, chose the road 
to the right. r 

To walk straight ahead was all that occurred 
to him. This course proved, for; about an; 
hour's space, brilliantly unfruitful; at the end. 
of that time he found himself facing what 
appeared to be a thick box-hedge. 

The box-hedge seemed interminable ; it 
grew ragged and ill-kept At length, to. his. 
joy, Windermere came upon a wide, ram- 
shackle gate. He went through: ' 

In the course of an hour he went through 
some half-a-dozen gates, each one leading, 
apparently, to nowhere. ' •<., , • 

But were there .half-a-dozen gates, or. 
merely one, possibly two, through- which he. 
had been passing and repassing ? Winder-, 
mere brought himself -to a sudden halt and 
swore heartily. It was. so ."; pre-eminently, 
likely that he had been travelling in a circle 
round and round. 

There was nothing within range of his 
foot; but, as he moved on, his bicycle struck 
against a great stone. 

Windermere stooped and felt it carefully: — 
there were joins in it— it felt itke a. piece of 
masonry. He moved cautiously on, and a 
few steps brought him against a high stone 
wall in which a large gap was broken. 

With infinite difficulty, he got his bicycle 
through the opening, scratching his knuckles 
and bruising his knees as he did so. 

After some perambulation he came upon 
what appeared to be. the cloudy outlines of a 
house. He approached closer and moved 
round it, seeking for the door. 

At length a porch discovered itself, banked 
by bushes on each side. The house, as he 

Vol xxxvil— 38. f~ 

Digitized by V"009le 

pilgrimaged round it, had appeared to be in 
darkness ; but Windermere could now see 
the dim glimmer of a light in what was pro- 
bably the kitchen.. 

He groped for the knocker, found it, and 
knocked loudly. He imagined he heard 
voices, but no one came to the door. He 
knocked again, and then again. Na one 
came to ask his business, but he heard foot- 
steps moving stealthily in the house. There 
seemed to be a greater area of light glimmering 
out against the fog. Windermere moved 
backward and looked up, then he stared. 

For, one by one, the windows began to 
kindle and shine; finally there was scarcely 
an unlighted window in the house. He 
saw that it was quite a large building, much 
larger than he had supposed ; and the entire 
face of it was aglow. 

. He could hear other footsteps now, noisy 
and impetuous, hastening along the passages 
and up and down the stairs. These were 
succeeded by a heavy tread, as of some 
heavy weight , being carried. Windermere 
was struck by a sense of mystery, unpleasant 
mystery, in the house. 

He must either obtain shelter here or 
wander, saturated, in the foggy darkness. 
The lighted windows fascinated him. Again 
he looked, up. at them; then he caught the 
knocker and with all his might hammered on 
the door. . 

The noise echoed and re-echoed. There 
was a sudden stillness in the house, as if all 
within listened to this foolish one demanding 
admittance. Finally, while Windermere still 
kept up, his . furious tattoo, heavy steps 
sounded on the stair, in the passage. Some- 
one advanced and began to unbolt the door. 

Windermere waited, controlling his im- 
patience as best he could. Intentionally or 
unintentionally, the fingers inside were slow 
and uncertain. Finally the door slid open, 
perhaps a couple of inches, and an uncouth 
voice asked :— - " 

"What is it you want?" 
: The. door wavered, as if on the point of 
being re-shut 

Hunger and cold made Edward Winder- 
mere desperate. He set his toe against the 
wavering door, pushed his foot in, and kept 
it open. 

"Shelter," he said, succinctly, "d night's 
lodging. You cannot refuse me. I have 
lost my way in this beastly fog, am hungry, 
and wet to the skin." 

" Where was you makin' for ? " 

" For Cunnington — from Hillgate." 

" You be a long way out." 





" I don't doubt it ; I have been wandering 
for hours." 

" You ain't got no one with you ? " 

Windermere could see now, through the 
gap which his foot kept open, the face of his 
interlocutor — that of a stupid country girl with 
dull brown eyes. Those eyes regarded him 
watchfully. For the rest, the girl was rather 
short, broad, and strongly built. 

"No, I haven't anyone with me. I am 

The girl moved back. "You'd best try 
somewheer else* The house is full. We 
ain't got no room," she said. She looked at 
him oddly. 

" There isn't another house for miles, and 
if there were I could not find it in this fog." 

"You'd best go on. There's the miller's, 
down agin the hollow theer." 

" I don't know the place ; I couldn't 
find it." 

He pushed his face close to hers. " You 
must give me shelter. I'm dead tired. I'll 
sleep anywhere — in the kitchen, if you like." 

" Well, I can't help it if you comes in. If 
you will, you will, I s'pose," said the girl, 
drawing back reluctantly. 

The hall was flagged and clean. His feet 
and the bicycle-tyres made a muddy track 
across it. A lantern hung from the ceiling, 
lighting imperfectly the hall and a wide, 
gloomy stair. By its light Windermere, 
looking down at himself, saw that he was 
covered with reddish -brown mud from 
shoulder to foot, and that his knuckles were 
bleeding. He was wet through besides. 

He closed the door behind him ; it shut 
with a clang. The noise reverberated through 
the house, which was intensely silent after its 
clatter of a few minutes ago. 

Windermere glanced at the girl. She 
returned the glance stolidly. Without utter- 
ing a word she turned and led the way into 
a narrow and ill-lighted passage. Leaving 
his machine behind him in the hall, 
Windermere followed her. 

The passage ended in a door. His guide 
pushed it open and he found himself in an 
immense kitchen. It was empty, but about 
half-a-dozen chairs still stood round the fire. 
Glancing about, Windermere saw that on the 
high mantelshelf several pipes were scattered. 
A number of glasses stood on a table near 
the window, but had evidently not been 
used. A large table stood in the middle of 
the room. 

There were three great cupboards of solid 
dark oak, a door — besides that which led 
into the passage — and in one corner a huge 

by K: 



copper. The floor was flagged, with mats 
thrown here and there. Several old weapons, 
well polished, hung on the wall. 

" You kin sit theer," said the girl, pointing 
with her thumb. She indicated a chair 
facing the fire, and with its back to the door 
leading from the passage. 

"lam horribly damp," said Windermere. 

"I dessay." She seemed indifferent, but 
after a moment, in which she lifted the glasses 
one by one and set them on a tray, she went 
slowly to a nail on the wall on which an old 
coat hung, lifted down the shabby garment, 
and brought it to him. It was coarse, soiled, 
and evil-smelling ; but, after a moment's 
repugnance, Windermere took off his Own 
coat and donned this. He hung his dripping 
garment over the back of a chair. 

Windermere seated himself before the huge 
fire, on which a great kettle sputtered cheer- 
fully. Clouds of white steam puffed out from 
his clothes. " If I might have something to 
eat " he ventured. 

"I don't know about that," said the girl, 
curtly. " I must ask th' master. There ain't 
much in th' house. Visitors ha' eaten most." 

But she did not go very far to ask — only to 
the door behind his chair. Windermere could 
hear her whispering there ; but when he looked 
round he could see nothing. 

At his movement she turned and came 
back into the kitchen. She said, sourly, 
" You may ha' summat." 

On a shelf near was a plate on which were 
two or three large hunches of bread. She 
brought this to him, setting it on the great 
table at the corner nearest the fire. After a 
few moments she brought a slice of red 
cheese and set that plate beside the first. 
She hesitated, then added a glass and a small 
jugful of ale. 

At this moment the door opened and 
another maid entered ; Windermere, as he 
turned toward the table, caught sight of her, 
full view. He was struck by her pallor, by 
the refinement of her features, by the great 
dark blue eyes that for one moment looked 
into his. The girl was dressed in a straight 
blue gown. Her apron was clean and neat, 
her cap sat on her head proudly as if it were 
a crown. She gave the stranger no greeting, 
but, going to the dresser, lifted the tray ful of 
glasses and bore them from the room. 

Windermere drew his chair toward the 
table. The fare was coarse, but, hungry as 
he was, he found it acceptable enough. 

He drank a glass of ale, then moved his 
plate aside. " You haven't given me a knife," 
he said. 

Original from 




"No," responded the stout girl, stolidly. 
" There ain't no knives. The company has 
them all upstairs," 

u But — how can I cut this without a 

Not heeding him, she went to one of the 
cupboards and rummaged there. When she 
emerged she carried a great pewter candle- 
stick and a bunch of rusty keys. 

He repeated, staring at the bread and cheese, 
" How can J cut these without a knife? " 

** As best you may," retorted she, roughly. 

set all these together with the hot water upon 
the tray. 

"For the company, I suppose?" queried 
Windermere, He reflected uneasily upon 
the extraordinary silence of the house. 

"For the gentlemen upstairs," said she. 
Her voice was sweet and refined ■ but it was 
full of reserve. He felt that she looked at 
him curiously, as if she wanted to ask what 
he were doing there. When he brought out 
his pocket-knife and began to hack at his 
bread 3 she watched him. She did not, bow- 


" If th T master hears aught of ye, 'twill he 
the worse for you, Fm thinkin'. Take the 
vittals, or leave 'em, as you please — the 
company has all the knives." 

She went to the door, carrying candlestick 
and keys with her. As she went out the 
maid in the blue dress came in. With a 
flicker of her dark eyes toward the table she 
set down an empty tray. She took a great 
jug from the dresser and started to fill it with 
boiling water from the kettle on the fire. 

" I suppose I cannot have a knife ? " asked 
Wfndfrrmere, addressing her. 

She turned at the query and looked him 
in the face. "No," she said, shortly. Her 
jug was now full of water ; she set it on the 
table and looked about, Presently she went 
to a cupboard and sought there hastily, She 
brought out a great bowl, a long- handled 
spoon, and a dish heaped with sugar. She 

by Google 

ever, make any remark. Presently she went 
away with her burden. 

He had finished his supper when the tall 
girl returned with empty hands. She said, 
" The master says you had better go to your 
room now. We shall want the kitchen." 

"1 am very willing," said Windermere. 
" I am tired." 

His coat still hung by the fire; he felt it 
to see if it were dry. It was not 

41 You had better leave it there," said she. 

He agreed. He had emptied the pockets 
when he took it off, 

More to draw her blue eyes upon him than 
from any hope of re reiving inlormation, he 
said, " I want to reach Cunnington as early 
as possible to-morrow morning. Can you 
suggest the quickest route?" 

"You want to go to Cunnington?" she 
asked him quickly, 

Original from 



"Yes, I want to rejoin a friend there/' 

She regarded him steadfastly for a few 
moments, seemed about to question him 
further, then her eyes wavered She said, 
turning from him, " I do not know the way." 

The other maid brought a lighted candle, 
and the girl with the blue eyes took it from 
ben She said to Windermere without looking 
at him, "Come, I will show you the way to 
your room," 

He was to have a room ; Windermere was 
sorry. He felt strangely loath to leave the 
kitchen. H6 hung back a little, but the girl 
in the blue gown walked steadily to the 

She said again, " Come," and he went 
after her; the other maid followed behind 

They seemed to go up a great many stairs, 
past a great number of doors, past rooms 
well lighted -chinks of radiance shone at him 


3 y Google 

from them as he passed — but silent as the 
grave, Only in one chamber was heard a 
rattle of glasses and plates. The girl in front 
passed the door of this quickly. She looked 
back to see if he were behind. More stairs 
then, and she paused, pushing open a door, 
" This is where you are to sleep*" 

He glanced round the room. In the dim 
light of the candle the girl held — and there 
was no other light — he could see that it was 
small, high-ceilinged, and sparsely furnished, 
but a fire sputtered in the grate. 

The girl gave him the candle. He noticed 
that her hand was small and white, and 
without any stain of toil. 

" Make as little noise as you can ; there 
are other people near/ 1 she said, admonish- 
ingly. Over her shoulder he could see the 
stolid features of the other maid* 

" Thank you* (rood night/' said Winder- 
mere. He walked toward the fire. Both 
girls withdrew, and the door closed. 
They rattled the handle in closing 
it ; the lock was evidently stiff from 
rust and disuse. 

Windermere stood by the fire, 

warming one foot and then the other. 

The muddy state of his boots struck 

him, then the state of his stockings 

and knickerbockers, which were 

caked over with dirt. A long, narrow 

glass hung on one of the walls ; 

he caught a glimpse of himself 

in it, li A disreputable-looking 

ruffian/ 1 he thought, rather 

amused. His face, he saw, was 

smudged. His hands were dirty 

also; he must cleanse them 

and give his knuckles a chance 

to heal. 

He did so. There was cold 
water in the jug on the wash- 
hand-stand, and a morsel of 
yellow soap. A coarse 
towel hung from a small 
racL He ransacked the 
table by the window, but 
could not find a clothes- 
brush* There was not 
a brush in the room, he 

A bell hung beside the 
bed ; his first impulse was 
to ring it, but he thought 
better of it, remembering 
the tall girl's warning. He 
would go to the door and 
see if he could intercept 

one of the maids. 
Original from 




He crossed the room, seized the handle, 
and turned it ; he pulled, but to no purpose. 
The door offered resistance. But a cursory 
examination was needed to show him that it 
was locked— on the outside. On his side 
there was neither bolt nor bar. 

The discovery made him thoughtful, and 
again a vague uneasiness stole over him. He 
went to the window and looked out. He 
could see nothing ; the fog and darkness 
made a blank wall before him. The sash- 
line of the window was broken ; the lower 
half of the frame was a dead weight which 
he could not move. It mattered little — from 
the number of stairs he had climbed he cal- 
culated that the room was placed high. 

His non-ringing of the bell mattered little 
either, he soon saw, for the wire was broken 
where it entered the wall. 

He paced the room, wondering, cogitating. 
In spite of his weariness the bed in the 
corner did not tempt him. There was an 
arm-chair covered in dingy rep ; he moved it 
from the window and set it by the fire. As 
he did so he fancied he heard movements, a 
quick whispering, then retreating footsteps 
outside his door. He paused and listened. 
Yes, there were footsteps; they faded along: 
the carpet of the corridor and were lost. 

To the left of the wall in which the door . 
was set, and placed very. high, was a short 
slit, no doubt for ventilation. As he sat 
brooding at the side of the fire Windermere 
could see this slit. As he gazed at it, 
wondering what it was, it became suddenly 
filled with light — a light which pierced 
sharply into his room, ill-served as it was. 
by the solitary candle. 

Windermere had unlaced his boots. He 
slipped them off and ran across the floor ; 
but, quick as he had been, the light had 
flickered and disappeared. 

He stood staring, and as he stood there a 
sound of footsteps smote his ear ; it became 
more distinct, and again a light filled the 
chink in the wall. The footsteps came very 
near, the light flickered ; in a moment it was 
gone. Windermere again waited, and the ; 
experience was repeated. Quite suddenly he 
realized the explanation. The staircase in 
the corridor outside wound upward past the 
wall of his chamber ; these footsteps were of 
people mounting to the next floor to go to 
bed. Apparently each person carried a 
candle or lamp, and always on the side 
nearest Windermere's wall ; in this way the 
light of each shone for a moment into his 

Windermere counted; six persons had 

Digitized by CjOOQ IC 

mounted the stairs. He wondered how 
many were in the house, if six slept even 
farther aloft than he. 

Those who went above were strangely 
silent; he could hear not a footstep over- 
head. As he listened, sharply attentive, he 
heard the stair creak stealthily. Was some- 
one passing up now without a light? He 
could not tell. 

That sound was scarcely past when his ear 
caught another. It was a duller, heavier 
sound ; he listened to it mechanically, a kind 
of horror seizing him. He had heard this 
noise before; it was as if several persons 
moved, carrying some heavy weight. He 
heard it approach, heard the halting of feet — 
it seemed to him exactly opposite his door. 
Then, unaccountably, while he watched the 
door with bated breath, there was a dull thud, 
and the whole thing faded away. There was 

Windermere cursed his captivity; the locked 
door which chafed his courage and tried his 
nerves. Had he been able to burst the panel 
he would have done so, and have taken the 
consequences. But the door was old, heavy, 
well hung ; no strength of his could do aught 
with it. He could only wait. He could have 
wished that he had had less money on him ; 
the letter he had gone to Hillgate to fetch 
contained several bank-notes. 

He thought of the girl with the blue eyes ; 
she was no maid-servant — the idea was absurd. 
He wondered what she was. He could not 
tell. What was she doing in this house of 
strange silences and stranger sounds ? 

He stared at the candle as he sat by the 
fire. It was long and thick, and would 
probably last the night through. Its unsteady 
light was full of comfort. He watched it 
absently. He would not go to bed ; no 
sleeping in this house for him. He clapped 
his hand over the pocket in which was his 
pocket-book, and blinked at the candle ; and 
even as he vowed he would not slumber, 
through sheer weariness his eyelids closed 
and he fell asleep. 

When he wakened it was morning, late 
morning, and the sun shone in on him. The 
candle had guttered out long since ; the wax 
at the bottom of the. socket was hard. It 
was evident that he had slept a long time. 

Windermere rose stiffly, and with a sense 
of panic. He looked round. All was, 
apparently, as it had been when he closed his 
eyes at midnight. He felt for his pocket 
book — it was there. He examined it — the 
contents were intact. 

As he stood with it in his hands a knock 

'-| 1 1 I tf I I I '_' 




came at the door. He replaced the pocket- 
book and went. The handle turned with a 
groan, the door opening at once. 

Outside, resting on the. floor, he perceived 
a tray. It was covered by a spotless napkin, 
upon which were a coffee-pot, rolls, eggs, 
butter — a knife. Beside the tray lay his coat 
and a clothes-brush. . 

Windermere took them all in, wondering if 
he were, or had been, dreaming. He made 
his toilet, then breakfasted well. His watch 
having stopped, he had no idea what the time 
was. His coat had been well brushed, he 
perceived when he put it on, and wondered: 
by whom. When he was ready for departure 
he left his room and went downstairs. 

The sturdy maiden of last night met him 
in the hall. Her stare was as stolid as ever \ 
it told him nothing. 

She said merely, " You are to go into th* 
parlour," and went before to show the way. 

The parlour was on a level with the hall, a 
large, pleasant room. The tall girl sat there 
by the table, sewmg. She was dressed in a 
light skirt and blouse, and wore neither cap 
nor apron. She seemed to expect no surprise 
from Windermere. As her eyes met his she 
said, in a matter-of-fact tone : — 

"There is a map of the county on the 
table there ; it will tell you the way to 
Cunnington ." 

" Thank you," said Windermere. He 
spread out the map and considered it ; his 
mind was full of confusion. It was evident 
that last night was to be ignored. 

After a moment he said, slowly, " It is a 
slight difficulty that I do not know where I 

She hesitated for a moment, evading his 
glance. Then she said, quickly, " You are 
at Redlands." 

His amazement grew at the reply. He had 
heard of the house, the ramshackle residence 
of a well-known magistrate, a man of probity, 
but without wealth. 

The preceding night became more and 
more of a mystery. He closed the map. 

The girl rose. "Your bicycle is outside," 
she said, quietly.; "Margaret has cleaned it 
up a little." 

She went with him through the hall to the 
porch, moving with the same stately grace as 
had distinguished her when in humbler garb. 
Two young girls were in the garden ; Winder- 
mere could see them walking among the 
trees, their heads bare, long tails of hair 
hanging down their backs. 

He said stiffly, " I am indebted — how can I 
repay " 

by Google 

A smile curved the lips of his companion 
then. She said, " Repay us for what ? " 

He hesitated. " A night's shelter." His 
brows drew down in perplexity. 

" And entertainment ! M She laughed. 
"Say no more of it." In her turn she 
hesitated, then said, with a charming apology 
in her blue eyes, "You have little to be 
grateful for. If you should ever come this 
way again, perhaps you may give us a chance 
of redeeming our character for hospitality." 

He turned his bicycle round and moved 
down the garden path. He wished he had 
not to go, but he had no excuse to stay. 
There was more in this girl that attracted him 
than the mystery about her. 

To his surprise she walked to the gate 
with him. It was almost as if she, too, were 
disinclined to cut off thus unsatisfactorily 
their acquaintance. 

She did not speak. 

At the gate Windermere turned. "I do 
wish," he said, impulsively, "you would tell 
me why you locked me in my room ? " 

She looked him full in the face. There 
was mingled shame and amusement in her 
eyes. She said, slowly, " You would never 
forgive me if I told you." 

He said, " Why not ? Besides, I think I 
could forgive you anything." 

She began to speak then, hesitating between 
the words. " You see— it was like this — we 
did not know who you were — the whole thing 
was a mistake. My father— he is a magis- 
trate, you know — had been threatened by 
some fellow whose conviction he had to do 
with a short time ago. We girls, we heard of 
it, and we were nervous. The man's time 
was up the day before yesterday, and we 
thought " 

" You thought I was he ! " He was filled 
with astonishment. He had not thought of 
a solution affecting himself. Colour crept 
into his cheek. 

She went on : " Father was away last 
night, and my brother, too. We thought you 
might do us a mischief. There were only the 
two girls — my younger sisters — myself, and 
Margaret. We* were all afraid, horribly afraid, 
so we had to pretend — that there were 
a lot of people in the house." 

"It was all pretence! You were afraid!" 
He remembered the lack of a knife. " You 
were afraid of me ?" 


"You acted very well!" He was still 
filled with astonishment. 

She smiled. " It was difficult in some 
ways. We went upstairs by your door two 






or three times, each one of us, to make you 
think there were people going to bed up 
there. We had to steal down in the dark 
before mounting again, It was difficult to 
do it quietly, and we were horribly afraid." 

" There weren't any men drinking upstairs ?" 

She shook her head. " None, Only the 
two girls, my sisters, clattering dishes about," 

Suddenly he began to laugh \ the humour 
of the thing struck him. "You were afraid 
of me, and you made me — well, almost afraid 
of you ! " 

He related to her his experiences of the 
night ; she listened wide-eyed* When the 
tale was finished she did not laugh. She 
said, " I wonder you can forgive us — that— 
and the gardener's old coat 3 I am so 
sorry. You see, we did not think of you, 
except " 

" Except as the other man ; I do see. But 
why am I this morning set free? How do 
you know that I am not he ? n 

" Irene found a note about it among my 
father's papers this morning — that man's time 
is not up for another three weeks. We were 

They looked at each other gravely. 

He said, " If I come again in three weeks' 
time, will you look askance ? " 

She said calmly, but her lips twitched, 
"My father will be at home," 

by Google 

Suddenly he remembered, "You carried 
something past my door — someLhing heavy," 

She blushed a little* "We set a table 
against it." 

Again he laughed. She was very charm- 
ing standing there, the sunlight on her 
crimsoning cheeks. 

" My name is Edward Windermere," he 
said, " When not a vagabond, as last night, 
I play with pen and ink. I am, in fact, a 
writer of plays." 

She knew the name. Whilst she struggled 
with confusion one of the young girls called 
her : — 

"Esther! Esther! Where are you? Do 
come quickly ! n 

Her name was Esther, then. He would 
carry it away with him. 

"Good-bye," she said, moving away. "Try 
and forgive us." 

He said, " No, not goodbye ; I shall come 
again. And there is nothing to forgive," 

He mounted and skimmed away, down 
the narrow lane that led from the box hedge 
to the high road, His mind was not running 
on Cunnington or the anxious Gregson ; but 
on a night's adventure that had ended in 
strange wise. 

As he thought this, he said to himself, 
"No, it is not ended. I spoke truly— 1 shall 
come again." 

Original from 

A Pctsesmlt in. tKe Strand. 


(The illustrations for this article have been produced by Mr. Ernest Mills, who has cloihed his origin*] 

photographic studies with an appropriate setting and made [he various alterations without in any way 

altering the features, except with regard to the amount of hair on heads and faces,) 

EWS comes of yet another post- 
ponement of the long-expected 
London pageant. Londoners 
are keenly disappointed and 
begin to suspect, with some 
show of reason, that the pageant 
will never take place. With the idea of allay- 

ing in some 
sure this 




organized a pageant 
of its own. 

The Strand 
pageant has many 
advantages over 
the pageant that 
was to be. There 
is not a single 
li nobody" among 
the pageanteers. 
The world has 
offered its very best 
for our pageant, 
but, in spite of this, 
the public can view 
the unique proces- 
sion without 
coming to London, 
and for the small 
sum of sixpence. 

This is a pageant 
for the million ! 
Think of Julius 
Caesar and St. 
01af t Harold 
and William 
the Conqueror^ 
Richard Cceur de 

Lion and Dick Whittington, Richard IL 
and Wat Tyler, Crook backed Richard and 
Henry VI L, Henry VII 1. and Anne Boleyn, 
Elizabeth and Sir Francis Drake, William 
Shakespeare, Charles L, Oliver Cromwell, 
Charles IL, Queen Anne, not to mention 
minor notables defiling through The Strand, 
and each character represented by a present- 
day celebrity ! 

by Google 

In selecting stars from the worlds galaxy, 
the greatest difficulty encountered has been 
that some half-dozen celebrities were willing 
and anxious to represent such a popular 
character as Oliver Cromwell, but much 
trouble was experienced in finding anyone 
sufficiently patriotic to take such a part as 

that of Crook- 
backed Richard. 
The run on Crom- 
well s has been posi- 
tively bewildering. 
For the original 
I^ondon pageant, 
now postponed, 
Mr W; T. Stead 
nobly offered to 
sacrifice his mag- 
nificent beard so 
that he might the 
more faithfully re- 
present the much- 
desired Cromwell, 
and this in spite of 
the fact that he has 
not used the razor 
from his youth up- 
This nohle 
example of self- 
sacrifice has sug- 
gested to us that 
other celebrities 
would be prepared 
for various little 
pe r sona 1 sacr i fi ce s, 
and the following 
pnges represent 
what might be 
imagined as the 
result of such an appeal to some of the 
leading men and women of our time. 

An enthusjastic letter was received from 
Mr. Lloyd George ; " I will go one better 
than Mr, Stead I will not only give up my 
moustache, but shall have pleasure in lopping 
off an arm and gouging out an eye that I 
may represent England's great naval hero, 
Lord Nelson," 

Original from 


as " Cromwell/ 



Hon. Lloyd George as " Lord Nelson 

Rt. Hon. John Burns as a Yeoman of the Guard. 

The Right Hon, John Bums said that in 
his youth he always imagined that the most 
important person in the 
world was a Beefeater ; 
so he intended to re- 
present one of the 
heroes of his youth, and 
would go as a Yeoman 
of the Guard. 

Mr. Winston Chur- 
chill, as will be seen 
from the following let- 
ter, for once "plays the 
woman/ 1 "I am dis- 
tressed that it should 
appear that I have 
nothing to sacrifice for 
the sake of my patriot- 
ism. At first I contem- 
plated growing a beard 
and moustache in suf- 
ficient quantities to 
enable me to imperson- 
ate Iir. Grace or some 
such Lnglish Esau. 
My wife, however, 
declared that if I did 
anything so * flagrantly 
ridiculous' she 

Voi *Juoii.-W. 

would disown me- She pointed out that I 
might as well go as Marie Corelli or Queen 



Winston ChurcSitll a* " Qu<*n Elizabeth.' 




Dr. Clifford as " Friar Tuck.' 

Elizabeth, I turned this scoff into a prayer, 
and decided to represent the latter lady," 

The Bishop of London as 

Digitized by VjOC 


Kcv. K, J. Campbell as " Mary Queen of Scot*." 

That great Nonconformist Ironsides* Dr« 
Clifford, should have gone as Cromwell, but 
as this part was allotted to 
Mr- Stead he represents 
Friar Tuck, thereby sacri- 
ficing a part of his Non- 
conformist conscience, 

Why those eminent 
divines, the Bishop of Lon- 
don and the Rev, R. J. 
Campbell, should appear in 
their respective characters 
is somewhat of a mystery. 
Possibly, however, it may 
be explained in the case of 
Dr. Ingram by the rule of 
contraries, for it is impos- 
sible even to imagine two 
human beings more different 
than the genial, cultivated 
Bishop and the vicious and 
pig-headed King. In the 
face of the eminent pastor 
of the City Temple one may 
trace a certain curious and 
amusing resemblance to the 
features of the Queen of 
Scots. It is, perhaps, super- 
fluous to add that their 
characters do not run at all 





Mr. W. \V\ Jacobs would do credit to any 
of the following six characters : Henry VIII., 
Captain Kidd, Richard Coeur de Lion, Dick 
Turpin, Captain Cook, and Edward the Con- 
fessor. Mr Jacobs pointed out that there were 
abjections to each of these characters. He 
had not the presence of Henry VIII,, and 
thought that this character should be taken 
by a bachelor. If he consulted his own 
feelings he should like to go as one of the 
wives of Henry VIII. He recognised his 
shortcomings, but was encouraged when he 

Jacobs a* "Anne Boleyn,' 

remembered that he would only be repre- 
senting the sixth part of a Queen. 

The part of Shakespeare was a fore- 
gone conclusion. With much boldness 
The Strand approached Mr. G. Bernard 
Shaw and pointed out that, however great 
the condescension might be t and un- 
doubtedly was, it was nevertheless a public 
duly that he should take the part of 
William Shakespeare* G. B. S* suggested, 
*ith some show of reason, that he should 
go as himself. There was no necessity 
for the presentation of two dramatists, 
and to cover the living Shaw with the dead 
Shakespeare was — to put the most modest 
construction on it — superfluous. How- 
ever, when it was shown that a King at 

Mr. G. Bernard Shaw as " Shakespeare." 

times deigned to look at a cat, he considered 
the matter favourably, 

Mr. Rufus Isaacs goes as Charles I. before 
losing his head. Sir, Isaacs has figured in 
many trials, but he was bom a few centuries 
too late to plead the cause of Charles Stuart, 
and in consequence the King was executed 

Mr, F.ufuir. Liaci a§. ^Charles I, 1 


3 oS 


Sir F. Treve* u " William the 

Reverting to the time of the Conquest, it 
became necessary to find a man who would 
fittingly impersonate the Conqueror, and this 
part — having regard to his il conquest over 
human pain "■ has been allotted to Sir 
Frederick Troves, 

Among comparatively modern characters 

Rt. Hon, R. B. Hddatie « + * Dr< Johnson." 

Mark Twain as "Thomas a Beckei " 

England's great lexicographer, Dr. Johnson, is 

portrayed to the very life by Mr. H&Idane. 

Mark Twain was on the horns of a 

dilemma. He had drawn up a list of about 

sixty characters th,n he might represent with 

credit to himself and honour to the pmto 

types.' After considerable difficulty he 

reduced the number to two — 'I homas 
Uri gin aT from 




a Becket and Grimaldi. He 
had leanings towards the clown, 
but, remembering that some 
s*df- denial was required, he 
finally fixed upon the Arch- 
bishop* He was not sure 
whether Becket wore a beard, 
but as he always associated 
beards with Archbishops he 
had locked away his razor, and 
already had quite a respectable 
growth on his chin. 

The part of King Arthur 
has been kindly undertaken 
by Sir F. C Gould. His ad- 
miration for this British King 
and hero of the Round Table 
was unbounded, a man — and 
he said this with all due 
modesty — who was "as good 
a* Gould." 

The courteous friend of 
Elizabeth, Sir Walter Raleigh, 
h admirably represented by Sir 
li'jJIiam Treloar, friend not 

Sir F. C, Gould as " King Arthur." 


Sir W. Treloar as " Sir Walter Raleigh 

only of monarchs but of 
cripples* Sir William's 
kindly smile, charm of 
manner, and grace of per- 
son go to the making 
of an excellent Raleigh. 
When it was mentioned to 
Sir William that Raleigh 
was never represented as 
having a white beard and 
moustache, he said that 
he understood that some 
sacrifice was called fur, 
and he would go to the 
extreme and "dye" fur 
the pageant. 

Mrs. Punk hurst, who 
enthusiastically entered 
into the pageant spirit, 
thought that it would be 
sufficient sacrifice if she 
went as a man, and, 
having a strong admira- 
tion for the Caesars, she 
proposed to take the part 
of Julius (ivrsar, wilh 
the one stipulation that 
she should be allowed 
to wear a " Votes for 
Women " button to show 
that she was not a traitress 
rtfft the cause. 




PankWit as "Juliut Croar," 

Several candidates offered 
themselves for the part of 
Joan of Arc, and after due 
deliberation Miss Annie 
Kenny was selected, Having 
regard to the fact that she was 
the first Suffragette martyr, 
the choice is extremely 
appropriate. It will be re- 
membered that she was cap- 
tured by the English — as 
represented by Mr. Churchill 
— at Manchester, and proved 
that she was made of stern 
stuff, like the character she 
represents, who, by the way, 
was also Maid of Orleans. 

It was difficult to find a 
celebrity with " a sufficient 
resemblance to Wolsey to 
impersonate the great Car- 
dinal, There are difficulties 
about the Wolsey face ; its 
uncommon strength, unre- 
lenting lines, haughty mien, 
dignity all * 4 cardinal :y 
points — were only to be 
found in one individual — 
Mrs. Besant 

Mill Annie Kenny as "Joan of Arc" 

joan or /\rc 


Mrs* Annie Bevir: xi w CcrdijiJ Wd«y." 




I HE traffic roared in Holborn, 
while the rain fell in floods 
and ran far up the sloping 
camber of the roadway. In 
the broken mirror of the water 
and the shining pavements a 
thousand electric lights sparkled, repeating 
themselves from the windows of the shops, 
and here and there the tail lamp of a cab 
flicked the road with ruby red. Green and 
purple shone from a distant chemist's shop 
and streamed over the pavement wonderfully, 
filling the eye with colour as magical as the 
dream of a strange drug from far-off lands — 
such lands as many knew who that night 
rejoiced in the spell of the great city. And 
the voice of the town was like that of a roar- 
ing river to some and the clamour of a great 
wind to others, and to one at least it was like 
the roar of the surf beating on the desolate 
beaches of an unmarked island in the great 
Southern Ocean that rings about the Antarctic 

" But I'm out of the great silence all the 
same, ,, said Tom Carew ; " here's my own 
city and the speech of it. Oh, but it has 
changed and grown even in these ten years ! " 
By his side, in the shelter of a doorway, 
stood a policeman in an oil-cape shining 
with the rain. He stared at the man beside 
him. For Tom Carew, seaman and castaway, 
was as tall as he and very powerful. The 
breadth of his shoulders and depth of his 
chest showed well in his ragged coat of blue, 
which fitted him over-tightly, for it had once 
belonged to a smaller man. On his head 
was an old cloth cap ; in his lean brown 
hands he held a bundle, made of a stained 
red bandanna, such a handkerchief as an 
Italian mariner, with a childish love of gaudy 
colour, might have bought in Leghorn, and 
rejoiced to possess. But though the con- 
stable saw these things, he looked mostly at 
the man's face, which was tanned to the 
colour of madder, with the life of red blood 
in it. 

"Come h* sue from somewhere," said the 
constable. A strange-lookin' chap, surely. 
Wher, S <"rom?" 



by Google 

" Rain's 'eavy, eh ? You're a stranger in 
London ? " 

Carew turned marvelling eyes upon him. 

"It's my own city, constable; but it's 
changed — oh, how changed ! " 

" Ah, you notice it, 'avin' been abroad, as 
one might guess," said the constable, staring 
at him hard. The ragged man's voice, in 
spite of his rags and bundle, had a quality 
which urged the policeman to call him "sir." 

14 What have you been doing to it these 
ten years — or near it ? " said Carew. 

" These ten years ! Where were you all 
that time, sir?" 

He had to call the man "sir"; he could 
not help it. 

" The last three in solitary confinement," 
said Carew. "Three solid years and some 
months to boot." 

He waved a hand as if to some big empty 
space — the great space he had stared at till 
it almost mastered him. 

"Solitary, now! And where was that?" 
asked the constable, starting. 

" In the Southern Pacific," said Carew. 
"You're the first Englishman I've spoken to 
these many years. I was cast away at sea. 
And this is London — this is Holborn? I 
can't believe it." 

" That's it, sir. Holborn it is ; and this is 
rain, real rain, not to speak of the mud," 
replied the policeman, with a laugh. 

" Where's Southampton Row ? " asked 
Carew, suddenly. 

The policeman pointed to a way which was 
strangely new and broad. 

"We London folk changed it while you 
slept, sir." 

" And Russell Square ? Have you pulled 
that down ? " 

" God bless you, sir, it was in its place 
this afternoon. Do you want it ? " 

" I was born there," said Carew. 

" So you're goin' 'ome, sir ? " 

" That's it — I'm going home," said Carew, 

"I 'ope you'll find things all right, but 
changes do take place in four years, not to 
speak of ten," said the constable. 

And Carew fingered his bundle nervously. 





" Well, I'm changed too. I wish I could 
ask you to have a drink, constable, but 1 

"Thank you all the same, sir/' said the 
constable; "and I wish you luck, sir." 

" The same to you," said the man with the 
bundle. "Good night.' 1 

"Good night, sir," said the constable. 
And Carew went across the street with a 
swift, light step. 

Several times he stayed as he went north, 
for he looked in the big shops and stood by 
the mouth of the tunnel out of which shot 
marvellous lighted and resounding tram-cars 
from the bowels of the earth, 

<( I wonder where they come from and 
where they run to," said Carew. Then he 
found himself in the old part of the Row, 
which still remains a narrow street. But 
even that was changed. 

lie came out upon the Sijuare and, turn 

Digitized by G< 

ing to the left, stood in from 
of a corner house. Then 
he walked across the road 
so the inner garden and 
stared into the darkness, 

He turned and, leaning 
against the railings, looked 
back at the house that lie 
was born in. 

"Nigh ten years since I 
saw* it, and four years and 
over since they heard from 
me ! \V hat's happened ? 
They mayn't live there now. 
The house looks dark. 31 

Yet there was a light 
from one window on the 
ground floor, while gas and 
the glare of a fire wanned 
the kitchen in the base- 
ment, He walked across 
the road again and went up 
the steps slowly and laid 
his hand upon one of the 
two knockers which all the 
houses in Russell Square 
boast. But he did not knock, 
after all — he could not; a 
knock seemed so loud and 
peremptory a noise, and he 
felt the old house was full 
of ghosts, and over-silent. 
So he rang instead of 

" I hope — I hope they're 
all alive," said Carew. He 
knew now that they were 
not; something told him so 
— spoke it loudly in his ears; the old house 
itself said "Death" to him, and "Too late! 
Too late ! " He shook his head as ht_* heard 
steps in the hall and saw the light turned up 
suddenly. Then the door opened and lie saw 
the light strike across a woman's face, for the 
lamp was overhead. 

"Thank God ! " said Carew, and smiled, 
"What is it? "said the girl. She looked 
little more than twenty, though it was so long 
since he had seen her, and then she was sis- 
teen and his mother's little maid, a pet of 
the house, a child of an old servant. Tom 
Carew was twenty then, and he remembered 
kissing Kitty and being caught by his 
mother, who said, gravely, "If you do that, 
Tom, I shall have to send Kitty away/' Six 
months later the world called him and he 
went to the wnr in Africa; and afterw.mN the 
sea called him, and so he had his lonely 

island d;iys that made him a man a* much as 




any war could do. And this was Kitty — 
Kitty grown up and beautiful, perhaps, as the 
child had promised to be ; for Mrs, Carew 
loved beauty, and had no daughters —only 
her wild son Tom and his elder half-brother, 
the child of another woman. 

" What do you want ? " said Kitty. It was 
the first woman's voice that had spoken to 
him since he shipped in that Italian barque 
at Cape Town for Australia. 

"What do I want?" said Tom Carew. 
He wanted, there and then, to catch her in 
his arms and kiss her, out of gladness to 
think that he knew her. So would he have 
kissed the old cook who 
loved him. He made a 
step towards Kitty and 
smiled. The light fell fully 
on his face, 

"Kitty, my dear/' said 
the wild man with the 

And Kitty stared at him 
and, lifting up her hands, 
caught him by the arm and 
stared again. 

"Oh, oh, it's Master 
Tom ! " she said, and cried 
there and then, sobbing 
strangely as she looked at 
him through her tears, 

He stepped inside, slung 
his bundle on the hall 
table, and shut the door. 

"How are things?" he 
asked, with a dry throat 
"Things" meant so much 
— his dear mother and his 
old father- a strange old 
man of books, learned, 
severe, ascetic, and yet 

"Oh, sir, Master Tom," 
she said again* And he 
caught her by the shoul- 
ders, half roughly, half 
tenderly, for she was soft 
to the touch, and touch- 
ing a woman's sweet flesh 
moved him strangely, 

" My mother, Kilty?" 

"Oh, sir, she's dead this year past." 

" Ah ! And my father ? n 

" I,ast month, sir, last month " 

Tom nodded, and again nodded, bitterly. 

"Aye, I knew it, I knt-w it. The very 
house said so ! " 

"Why didn't you come home sooner. 

Master Tom ? And for four years you never 
wrote," she cried. 

" I could not," he answered "The dear 
old folks died a thousand times for me when 
I could not, Kitty. Where's my brother, and 
how is he now ? u 

" Mr, William's out He's very ill, they 
say." Then she hesitated, and lorn Carew 
looked at her. 

" W hat were you going to say, Kitty ? " 

" He's leaving the house, sir, and he has 
sent away all but me and one more," 

" Why ? ■ asked Tom Carew, dryly. But 
of old he knew his half-brother. There had 


never been peace between the young boy and 
his elder. 

"Why?" he repeated, and Kitty looked 
at him, and opened the palms of her hand 
with a gesture almost foreign, but most 

"Oh, KStegithel ferni^ then," said Tom, 




bitterly ; " it's money once more and always ; 
and I suppose he has it all now ? " 

"They thought you were dead, sir. It's 
said he has it all." 

14 The dear old house, and he's leaving it 
to strangers ! Curse him ! " he said, sud- 
denly. And Kitty flinched. 

" You won't quarrel with him, sir, when he 
comes in. I expect him every minute. And 
he's ill, I know." 

" What's wrong with him ? ,f asked Tom, 
angrily. But JCitty could not tell him. All 
she knew was that the doctor saw him very 
often, though he went to the City always, well 
or ill 

"You won't quarrel with him, sir?" she 

" I'll quarrel with no one, my dear," he 
answered. "But will he quarrel with me? 
'Twas he sent me away to the war, Kitty, and 
not my mother, when she caught me kissing 
you. Have you forgotten that ? " 

She had never forgotten it, and smiled. 

" Oh, no ; at least, not quite." 

" Well, I've not forgotten," said Tom ; " and 
you're the first woman I've spoken to these 
three years and over. Do you believe that, 

As he spoke ihey heard a key in the door. 

" It's Mr. William, sir," said Kitty, hurriedly. 

The door opened and William Carew came 
in. He was as tall a man as his half-brother, 
and heavier, but gross of habit and heavy. 
His lips were strangely purple, and heavy 
veins lined his pallid face. He stared hard 
at the wild stranger in the hall. 

"Who's this?" he said, abruptly. 

" Don't you know me, Will ? " asked his 

Will Carew put up glasses and stared at 
him again. 

"Oh, you," he said. He fumbled in his 
ungracious mind for some more gracious 
greeting. "Oh, yes, it's Tom." 

" That's who it is," said the ragged man. 
"So we're all that's left, Will?" 

" You know, then ? " 

"Kitty has told me," said Tom, softly. 

"Twas your fault, or half of it," said 

"The fault of the seas, Will, not mine." 

He saw Kitty look at him imploringly as if 
she asked him to be gentle. He smiled back 
at her and nodded. To her he seemed a 
splendid man for all his rags, but to Will 
nothing was visible but rags. 

"Come in," he said, ungraciously. And 
Tom followed him into the library. There 
sat the stern ghost of his father, a hard man, 

yet kind and learned. There were the books 
he loved. Yonder by the window was the 
desk he worked at. That was the chair in 
which he died, though Tom knew it not 
Will sat down in it, thinking not of the dead 
but of the money that was his — the money 
that he loved and would not share. 

"Why didn't you write?" 

His voice was peevish, strained, and cold. 

" I couldn't." 

"And you come back — like this?" 

" Aye, in rags, and no need of pockets save 
for a knife. All my other gatherings are in an 
old bandanna outside." 

"You brag of it?" 

" I brag of nothing. It's mere plain fact, 

" You're going abroad again ? " 

"Do you hope so? Shall I not sit down 
here and stay with you ? " 

" I'm leaving the house next month." 

" The dear old house ! We were born in 
it. You'll not sell it?" 

" 'Tis as good as sold now." 

" If it were mine I'd not sell it." 

" It's not yours," said Will Carew, harshly. 

" No, to be sure, brother," said Tom. He 
sat the wrong way in a chair with his arms 
folded over the back of it. 

" I've nothing, I suppose ? " he said. 

" Nothing. They thought you dead " 

" How careless of me to get wrecked ! " 

" They resented your not writing — aye, and 
your general conduct," said his brother, 

" Aye, it was bad. I fought in South 
Africa when I might have stayed at home 
and made money. I could have worked 
under you at the office," said Tom. " That 
would have been good conduct. But not 
content with fighting, I must see the world, 
too, and get wrecked on a desert island ! " 

He held out his hand to Will and jumped 
to his feet. His brother started. 

"You hoped I was dead," said Tom. 
"Tell the truth now ! Didn't you hope that 
I should never turn up and ask you for a 
fiver ? " 

And Will never said a word. 

" You always were what you are, Will," 
said Tom; "a pattern, a model, the good 
boy of the family! What a contrast, eh, 
between you and me ? — you with the house 
and the business, and I with nothing in a 
bandanna. Oh, what a man you look ! " 

" Leave my house," said Will, rising from 
his chair. But Tom pulled out his pipe, 
filled it with loose tobacco from his ix>cket, 

,ighted «lfrara- 



" When I get ready, my half of a brother," 
he said, almost lightly. " I wondered, as I 
walked here from the Docks (do you know 
them or make money out of them ? A 
splendid part of London, Will !), whether 
you would be alive. And I reckoned up 
the sort of welcome I should get if you 
were top-dog now. I'm the prodigal, the 
returned cheque, the protested note (is that 
what you call it ?), the bad shilling ; and you're 
the good boy, the certified cheque, the note 
that anyone will discount, and the splendid 
shilling ! You're a curiosity, Will, that's 
what you are ! " 

u And you're a blackguard," said his 
brother. " Will you go, or shall I get some- 
one to turn you out ? " 

" Don't trouble the police ; I loved to see 
them to-day. I talked with one in Holborn, 
and told him I'd had three years' spljtary 

" A jailbird, a jail-bird ! " said Will. 

" On an island in the big Southern Ocean, 
my stay-at-home brother. You know the sea 
at Brighton ! Twas the same sea, Will." 

" He's a madman," said Will. 

" And you're sane, Will ; what sweet 
sanity ! Till to-day I've not spoken to a 
countryman for years. If my speech is rude 
put it down to that. I sailed with Italians 
from the!Cape, and a Dutchman picked me 
up. They were mostly men, though, and 
did their best for me. Won't you do the 
same? I suggest you ask me to dinner, 
and divide the inheritance, Will." 

" You sha'n't have a penny ; before God, 
not a penny ! " 

" Strange, isn't it ! I could wring your 
neck, Will ! " 

" You threaten me ! Not a penny ! " 

"Say a hundred thousand, no more than 

" Not a penny ! " 

" Not a stiver, not a maravedi, not a piastre, 
not a cent, not even a milreis? Where's the 
nearest workhouse, Will? It's a wet night. 
I must sleep somewhere. Hear the rain ! " 

Will rose to his feet and walked unsteadily 
to the desk. 

"If I give you fifty pounds will you go 
and never come back ?" he asked, shaking. 

" My generous brother, you overwhelm me. 
Let me see the money," said Tom. 

Will took the notes from a drawer in the 
desk and held them out. 

"Bring them here," said Tom, and Will 
brought them. 

"Now you owe me ninety-nine thousand 
nine hundred and fifty." 

" I owe you nothing, and I always hated 
you," said Will. 

"How unlike you to be so open," said 
Tom, turning the notes over in his hand. 
" Have you a pain anywhere, because you 
give me these? \ou're an unhappy man, 
Will. In the old days, though I was so 
much younger, I always got the best of life 
and of you. I've got the best now." 

"That's not true, not true." 

"There never was a truer word. You 
know it. You'd give your soul to be me. 
If I give you back this money I shall still 
have the best of you." 

He saw his brother's eyes fixed upon the 

" There are hundreds of men all over the 
world would be pleased to see me. I doubt 
if there's one would grieve if you went out. 
Oh, you poor devil; here's fifty pounds 
for you. When you make your will, if you 
haven't made it, leave it, on my account, to 
the Home for Lost and Starving Dogs." 

He threw the notes upon the floor at his 
brother's feet. But Will stooped eagerly and 
gathered them up. 

" Don't say I didn't give them to you ! " he 

"I'll remember, Will. Good-bye to you, 
my generous brother. You'll never see me 
again. Does that give you joy ? " 

And Will broke out furiously : — 

" I hate you, and always did. Isn't that 
enough ? " 

" Aye, it's enough," said Tom, soberly. 
"It's the poorest thing, hate, and a mean 
gift. There were hours in my lonely island 
when I loved you. Good-bye, old chap. I 
owe you nothing, not even a grudge. You 
can't help being what you are, and I'm sorry, 
very sorry. Good-bye." 

He opened the door, went out, closed it 
gently, and left Will standing there. 

"To be as strong as he is I'd give ten 
thousand pounds," said Will. He fell into a 
chair and sat there shaking. 

" I've never made my will," he said. " I'll 
make it to-night." 

He held the fifty pounds in his hands, 
and when he heard the outer door shut he 
grinned even then to think that Tom should 
be such a fool. 

And the fool stood outside in the square 
with his bundle in his hand, thinking not of 
his brother, nor of his houseless state, but of 

"I wish I'd kissed her once," he said. 
But it seemed that kisses were not for him. 

" I'll go to sea again," 




He tithilw tiik notes U^jn the floor at his ukothfks keet. 

He walked a few yards eastward and then 

" I will speak to heV again," he Raid. Even 
as he spoke he heard the area gate open and 
saw Kitty running towards him in the dark- 
ness and the rain. She came to him and put 
her hand timidly on his sleeve. 

" Oh, sir/* she said, " Oh, Master Torn ! " 

"What is it, Kitty, my dear?' 1 he asked 

" You are going— going ! " 

"Aye t " said Tom, "I suppose I am." 

" He— he turned you out, Master Tom?" 

" He offered me fifty pounds, Kitty — fifty 
golden sovereigns," 

"Oh, you didn't take it?" 

" How do you know that, Kitty?" 

"I — I know," she said. " And now — now 
you've no money ? " f 

" Not a cent, my dear." 

" When you went away you gave me a 
sovereign, Master Tom." 

" I thought it was only a kiss, Kitty. The 
second one. Do you remember ? ** 

She remembered, 

11 Mayn't I lend it to you now ? " 

"The kiss, Kitty? It would be sweet" 

"The sovereign, sir," 

" Td rather take a thousand from you than 

Digitized by G< 

a cent from him," snid Tom. "Yes, Kitty, 
you shall lend it to me, if you like." 

She put it in his hand. He held her 
hand firmly* 

"Did he say the master and mistress were 
angry with you, sir ? T * she asked, 

" He implied as much, my dear child," 
said Tom, sadly, 

(i It was a lie, They grieved most bitterly, 
and thought that you were dead. I want to 
tell you what your mother said." 

As she spoke the rain came down heavily. 

" Would you would you come into the 
kitchen, sir?" she asked. 

" Tis his kitchen, you know," said Tom. 
"But who's with you ?" 

" There's but two of us now, and the other 
girl is out." 

" Then he sent the old servants away ? " 

"Yes, sir, all of them." 

" And you're the cook, Kitty ? " 

" For the time, I am, Master Tom*" 

Tom laughed. 

"The kitchen belongs to the rook, I'm 
told, Kitty, and I'll come into the cook's 
kitchen. But Fm hungry, Kitty, and though 
the kitchen is the cook's, I J m told the food 
is the masters. Can you run round to the 
Original from 




Row and get me something with this sove- 
reign which has just been given to me. If 
you will I'll come in and talk with you and 
eat with you." 

" VVait here, sir," she said, eagerly. 

" I'll wait," replied the outcast, and Kitty 
ran into the darkness swiftly. 

"She's a sweet girl," said the wanderer. 
"I'm a lucky, dog after all — a very lucky 

And before he had smoked half a pipe 
Kitty came back. She took him by the arm 
again in a trembling triumph, and led him 
down the steps. The fire was burning 
brightly in the kitchen and he sat down by it. 

".It's a strange world, Kitty." 

"Yes, sir," said Kitty. For the moment it 
was a sweet world for her. 

" A very strange world. For years I lived 
on shell-fish, sea-birds, and seaweed, and 
cooked them myself." 

" How dreadful, sir ! Were you all alone ? " 
she asked, as she stood at the fire. 

" When my last Italian friend died I was 
all alone," he said. " Is that a chop, Kitty ? " 

" Yes, it's a chop," said Kitty. 

" I'm in luck, then. What's all the other 
stuff you're cooking ? " 

" That's the master's dinner. It won't be 
ready for an hour yet." 

"Tell me about my mother." 

So Kitty told al